Refractory  Husbands 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

JUST  FOR  Two 

LITTLE  STORIES  OF  COURTSHIP 

LITTLE  STORIES  OF  MARRIED  LIFE 

MORE  STORIES  OF  MARRIED  LIFE 

THE  SUBURBAN  WHIRL, 

AND  OTHER  STORIES  OF  MAR- 
RIED LIFE 

THE  UNFORESEEN 

THE  WAYFARERS 


"0A,  if  you  do,  I'm  afraid  I  wont  love  you 
any  more!" 

(Meeting  the  Dogj 


JWarp  fetetoart  Cutting 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1920 


Copyright,  ipij,  6? 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 

COPYRIGHT,  IQI2,  1913,  THE  CROWELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1913,  THE  AMERICAN  HOME  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1912,  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  IQXI,  1913,  THE  RIDGWAY  COMPANY 


Contents 

PAGE 

When  Aunt  Mary  Came 3 

A  Friend  of  the  Married 27 

Father's  Little  Joke 49 

Marie  Twists  the  Key 75 

Meeting  the  Dog 101 

Marrying  Willow 127 

Thursday 157 

Bunny's  Bag 185 

The  Blossoming  Rod 211 


525605 


Refractory  Husbands 


When  Aunt  Mary  Came 

fHEN  Aunt  Mary  comes,  Preston, 
you  will  just  have  to  go  to  church!" 
Pretty  Mrs.  Chandor's  tone  was  that 
of  one  nerved  for  combat. 

" Anything  you  say,"  remarked  her  husband 
absently,  with  his  eye  still  glued  to  the  magazine 
he  was  reading  in  the  waning  light,  as  he  sat  on 
the  piazza  in  a  chair  that  was  slightly  tilted 
to  allow  for  the  comfortable  placing  of  his  feet 
on  the  railing,  revealing  an  expanse  of  cadet- 
blue  lisle  stocking,  matching  his  necktie,  above 
the  low,  speckless  patent-leather  shoes.  Mrs. 
Chandor's  eye  rested  on  him  with  a  momentary 
esthetic  pleasure,  in  the  midst  of  her  harassment; 
she  never  had  to  implore  her  husband  to  go  and 
make  himself  "look  nice,"  as  Lucia  Bannard  was 
obliged  to.  Late  shadows  were  lying  across  the 
pretty,  smooth  lawn;  the  wistaria  lifted  lan- 
guidly in  the  dying  breeze;  from  nearby  came 
the  sound  of  little  boys'  voices  laughing  and 
calling  in  some  merry  game.  Everything  was 
at  peace  but  Elinor  Chandor's  mind. 

"  Preston,  put  down  that  book !    It's  too  dark 

[3] 


Refractory  Husbands 


for  you  to  read,  anyway.  I  was  just  saying  that 
when  Aunt  Mary  came  you'd  have  to  begin  and 
go  to  church  again.  Besides,  what  would  she 
think  of  me  if  you  didn't?  It  would  simply 
break  her  heart  —  she  wouldn't  understand  at 
all.  Not  that  /  understand  it  myself  —  I  never 
have !  How  a  man,  brought  up  as  you  were  by 
her,  can  reconcile  it  to  his  conscience  to  stay 
away  from  church  as  you  have  lately  —  Sunday 
after  Sunday!  Do  you  realize  how  long  it  is 
since  you  were  in  one?" 

"I  haven't  any  idea,"  said  her  husband 
genially. 

"Well,  I  was  thinking  about  it  just  the  other 
day.  It's  nearly  three  years!"  Mrs.  Chandor 
paused,  with  a  little  tremulousness  in  the  last 
words.  "Of  course  I  know  it  began  that  winter 
when  I  was  ill  so  much  and  we  had  Dr.  Gleamer 
for  rector.  I  know  his  delivery  was  dreadful, 
and  he  never  said  anything;  but  you  stay  home 
now  just  because  you've  got  into  the  habit  of 
staying  home;  you  won't  go  and  see  for  yourself 
how  changed  everything  is,  and  hear  what  good 
sermons  Mr.  Owen  preaches,  and  what  lovely 
music  we  have  —  you  just  couldn't  help  liking 
it.  I  know  people  blame  me  for  not  having  more 
influence  over  you !  Oh,  they  do !  I  know  it  is 
partly  my  fault;  but  it  is  so  hard  for  me  to  make 
you  do  anything  you  don't  want  to  do." 

Mrs.  Chandor  paused  once  more,  and  looked 

[4] 


When  Aunt  Mary  Came 

at  him  piteously.  "I  wouldn't  have  Aunt 
Mary  know  for  worlds!  Why,  she'd  never  get 
over  it  —  and  she's  done  so  much  for  you  always. 
I  cannot  have  her  hurt." 

"Well,  if  you  think  it's  necessary "  began 

Mr.  Chandor  doubtfully.  He  reached  over, 
and  took  his  wife's  hand,  pressing  his  thumb  on 
each  of  her  soft  knuckles  in  turn,  in  a  way  that 
with  him  expressed  affection,  while  his  gaze  took 
note  of  her  upturned  blue  eyes,  her  soft,  ripply 
hair,  and  the  slight  feminine  droop  of  her  head  to 
one  side,  which  gave  a  suggestion  of  depend- 
ence. Mr.  Chandor  thought  his  wife  exactly 
right;  he  had  a  permanent  satisfaction,  when  he 
looked  at  her,  in  his  choice. 

"It  does  seem"  -his  voice  rose  argumen- 
tatively  —  "as  if  I  might  have  one  morning  to 
do  as  I  pleased  in,  after  slaving  all  the  week." 

"Preston,  how  you  act!  Why  on  earth  you 
should  make  such  a  fuss  I  can't  see.  You  don't 
have  to  work  as  hard  as  that!  And  just  be- 
cause you  like  to  lounge  around  all  Sunday 
morning!  Yes,  I  do  think  it's  necessary.  If 
you  want  to  spoil  Aunt  Mary's  visit  entirely  — 
and  it  would " 

"Oh,  all  right,  all  right;  I'll  do  it,  of  course," 
said  her  husband  resignedly.  "Now  the  sub- 
ject's closed." 

"You  promise  me  faithfully  you  will  go  to 
church  with  Aunt  Mary  while  she's  here?" 

[5] 


Refractory  Husbands 


"Yes,  I'll  promise.  She  shall  do  anything 
with  me  that  she  wants/'  said  Mr.  Chandor  with 
emphasis.  "And  I  hope  you're  satisfied  now." 
He  drew  his  wife's  chair  a  little  closer  to  him, 
and  put  his  arm  around  her.  "Poor  girl,  she 
has  an  awful  time  with  her  husband,  hasn't  she? 
Pity  she  didn't  get  a  better  one  while  she  was 
about  it." 

"Oh,  when  you  talk  that  way!"  said  his  wife 
disdainfully  unimpressed,  yet  yielding  sweetly 
to  the  caress. 

When  it  came  down  to  it,  she  didn't  think 
there  was  a  better  man  in  the  world  than 
Preston. 

But  she  suddenly  sat  up  straight  as  she  saw  a 
lady  and  gentleman  approaching  up  the  path, 
and  gave  her  chair  a  little  hitch  away. 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Crandall.  Good  even- 
ing, Mr.  Crandall!" 

"You  and  your  husband  always  seem  to  have 
so  much  to  say  to  each  other,"  said  Mrs.  Cran- 
dall, a  nice-looking  young  woman  with  tired 
eyes,  glancing  now  at  her  husband,  a  short  square 
man  with  dark  hair  and  an  impassive  counte- 
nance. "No,  don't  get  up!  We  can't  stay;  I 
just  stopped  to  give  you  this,  Mrs.  Chandor." 
She  handed  over  a  paper.  "It's  one  of  the  new 
Sunday-school  leaflets;  I  hear  you're  to  take 
Miss  Green's  class  while  she's  away.  We  all 
think  it  so  charming  of  you.  You  ought  to  come 

[6] 


When  Aunt  Mary  Came 


to  church  next  Sunday,  Mr.  Chandor!  Will 
is  going  to  sing  a  solo  in  the  new  anthem;  it's 
by  Elgar;  the  most  exquisite  thing!  —  some- 
thing above  the  heads  of  the  congregation,  I 
fear!  But  I  suppose  there  is  hardly  any  use 
in  asking  you." 

"Yes,  better  come,  and  hear  me,"  said  Mr. 
Crandall,  speaking  for  the  first  time  and  puffing 
out  his  chest. 

"Why,  I've  just  promised  Elinor  that  I'd  be 
there,"  said  Mr.  Chandor  meditatively,  "but  if 

I  have  tohearyour  old  bass  growl,  Crandall " 

He  reached  over  and  clapped  the  other  on  the 
shoulder,  and  both  men  grinned  comfortably, 
while  the  two  women  exchanged  confidential 
glances  of  question  and  assent,  and  then  con- 
gratulation on  the  part  of  the  visitor. 

"I'll  tell  Dr.  Owen  to  get  at  that  sermon 
he's  aways  promised  to  preach  for  you,  you  old 
sinner,"  announced  Mr.  Crandall.  "Come 
on,  Nell,  we  must  be  getting  home  to  the  chil- 
dren. Hello,  here's  your  boy!  How  are  you, 
Teddy?" 

"For  goodness'  sake,  don't  look  at  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Chandor  dejectedly.  Teddy  was  one  of 
those  small  boys  who,  let  forth  immaculate  from 
a  mother's  hand  at  five  o'clock,  freshly  bathed 
and  brushed,  and  dressed  in  white  linen,  re- 
appears in  half  an  hour,  his  clothing  soaked  and 
limp  with  perspiration,  and  streaked  with  dust 

[7] 


Refractory  Husbands 


from  his  matted  hair  to  his  shoes.  From  thence 
until  bedtime  his  progression  was  unspeakable; 
there  were  nightly  talks  on  the  necessity  of 
improvement.  Lucile,  her  seven-year-old  girl, 
really  liked  to  be  clean;  Mrs.  Chandor  couldn't 
help  wondering  sometimes  why  it  was  so  hard  to 
make  any  impression  on  the  masculine  nature ! 

If  Preston's  friends  had  been  of  the  non- 
churchgoing  variety,  his  defection  might  have 
been  the  less  obvious,  but  most  of  their  little 
circle  were  interested  in  St.  Stephen's.  Will 
Crandall  had  been  a  choir-boy,  and  the  habit 
still  clung' to  him;  not  to  sing  in  a  choir  would 
have  dropped  him  out  into  the  open  wastes  of 
life,  where  he  had  no  accredited  place.  Dick 
Durland,  who  came  over  every  Monday  night 
to  play  chess  with  Preston,  was  a  vestryman, 
although  he  wasn't  half  as  well  fitted  to  be  an 
officer  of  the  church  as  Preston.  Jolly,  middle- 
aged  Mr.  Brentwood,  was  a  pillar  of  the  parish 
as  well  as  of  trade;  even  Mr.  Minott,  who 
had  been  "something  else"  before  he  married 
Minnie  Chase,  attended  services — intermit- 
tently, it  is  true,  but  still,  he  attended;  Mr. 
Owen,  the  rector,  was  a  frequent  visitor  of  their 
next-door  neighbours,  the  Bannards.  And  Pres- 
ton put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  as  frequently  as 
any  one  when  he  was  asked  for  subscriptions! 
His  wife  was  proud  of  that,  as  of  many  other 
things  about  him. 

[8] 


When  Aunt  Mary  Came 


Every  one  seemed  to  know  by  the  next  day 
that  Mr.  Chandor  would  be  seen  at  church  the 
following  Sunday. 

Mr.  Durland  jocularly  asked  if  he  should  send 
an  additional  envelope  for  the  collection,  and 
Mr.  Owen,  meeting  Preston  in  the  street  as  the 
latter  was  coming  home  from  the  train,  said, 
with  a  cordial  greeting,  that  he  was  already 
working  hard  on  that  sermon! 

Elinor  Chandor,  with  prophetic  vision,  could 
see  everybody  waiting  to  shake  hands  with 
Preston  as  he  left  the  sanctuary  —  she  hoped 
they  wouldn't  be  too  effusive!  She  had  a  sud- 
den fear  that  Lucia  Bannard,  who  was  an  emo- 
tional young  woman,  though  married,  might 
even,  in  an  excess  of  religious  fervour,  present 
Preston  with  some  commemorative  emblem  or  a 
book  of  devotion,  to  mark  the  event,  and  thus 
unalterably  revolt  the  boyish  shyness  which 
dwells  in  the  inner  recesses  of  the  nature  of  the 
real  man,  and  keep  him  forever  from  repeating 
the  action.  There  was  a  rapt,  far-away  gleam 
in  Lucia's  eye,  when  she  had  spoken  of  it  that 
morning,  that  might  bode  anything.  But 
Elinorwas;sure  that  if  things  were  left  in  a  normal 
state  Preston  would  get  in  the  habit  of  going  to 
St.  Stephen's  once  more,  when  he  found  out 
how  changed  it  was;  he  couldn't  help  liking  it 
now.  It  was  time  indeed  that  Aunt  Mary  came ! 

Aunt  Mary  was  a  large,  fresh-coloured,  gray- 

[9] 


Refractory  Husbands 


haired  lady,  who  looked  her  age  —  which  she 
always  proclaimed  on  every  occasion  —  only 
in  the  way  of  becoming  it.  Her  nephew  averred 
that  when  he  was  a  little  boy  he  thought  Aunt 
Mary's  lap  the  most  comfortable  place  in  the 
world,  and  she  still  preserved  this  characteristic 
for  all  childhood.  Their  elders  always  had  the 
feeling,  after  her  arrival,  that,  if  everything  wasn't 
exactly  right,  it  was  going  to  be;  she  knew  so 
many  infallibly  best  ways  of  reaching  perfection 
that  all  you  needed  was  to  make  a  little  pleasing 
extra  exertion  to  get  there. 

Her  loud,  clear  voice  and  cheerful  presence 
seemed  to  bring  an  atmosphere  of  agreeable 
competency. 

"Indeed,  the  journey  was  nothing,"  she 
affirmed,  when,  dinner  finished,  she  was  com- 
fortably bestowed  by  her  nephew  and  niece 
in  the  biggest  armchair  on  the  piazza,  with 
Lucile,  a  small-faced  girl  with  gigantic  butterfly 
bows  on  each  side  of  her  head,  hanging  on  the 
arm  of  every  one's  chair  in  turn,  as  well  as  on  the 
converse  of  her  elders. 

"There  was  a  very  kind  young  man  who 
carried  my  bag  for  me  —  of  course,  there  was  no 
porter  in  sight!  As  I  told  him,  when  a  woman 
is  sixty-eight  years  of  age  she  appreciates  a 
courtesy.  He  said  he  was  a  student  in  the 
Theological  Seminary,  and  I  assured  him  of 
the  pleasure  it  gave  me,  in  these  days  when 
[10] 


When  Aunt  Mary  Came 


young  men  are  so  lax,  to  find  one  who  was  pre- 
paring for  the  sacred  calling  of  the  ministry. 
He  had  such  red  eyes  that  I  offered  him  my 
recipe  for  eye-lotion  —  it  is  so  inexpensive  and 
simple  that  no  one  should  be  without  it." 

"How  very  kind  of  you,  Aunt  Mary," 
murmured  Elinor. 

"It  is  especially  excellent  for  children  as  a 
preventive/'  continued  the  visitor.  "I  was 
just  noticing  Lucile's  eyes.  Aunt  Mary  will 
prepare  some  of  the  lotion  for  you  to-morrow, 
dear;"  she  patted  the  child's  hand  affectionately. 
"We'll  put  it  in  a  cunning  little  bottle.  I  have 
one  in  my  trunk;  it  has  a  glass  stopper  with  a 
blue  ribbon  around  it;  and  I  have  chocolate 
drops  for  a  little  girl  who  remembers  to  use  it ! 

-  just  the  plain  kind,  Elinor,  they  won't 
hurt  her." 

"How  attractive  you  always  make  every  little 
thing,  Aunt  Mary,"  said  Elinor,  half  enviously. 
"Doesn't  she,  Preston?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  agreed  affectionately. 

"My  dear,  it's  the  little  things  that  it  pays  to 
take  trouble  about,"  said  Aunt  Mary  benignly. 
"By  the  way,  speaking  of  the  ministry,  what 
kind  of  a  rector  have  you  now,  Preston?" 

"Mr.  Owen  is  a  very  nice  fellow,"  answered 
her  nephew  sincerely. 

"When  I  was  here  before,  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  dissatisfaction  with  Dr.  Gleamer. 


Refractory  Husbands 


Many  people  had  stopped  going  to  church  on 
account  of  him;  and  when  that  kind  of  habit 
once  begins"  — Aunt  Mary  sighed  heavily  — 
"  there's  no  knowing  where  it  will  stop.  It's 
the  evil  of  the  age." 

"  Papa's  going  to  church  next  Sunday," 
carolled  Lucile,  throwing  herself  with  precipitate 
affection  at  that  parent.  "  Papa's  going  to 
church,  aren't  you,  papa?"  Her  immense 
butterfly  bows  quivered  wildly.  "He's  going 
to  walk  to  church  with  you,  Aunt  Mary!" 

Aunt  Mary's  look  of  growing  surprise  at 
Lucile's  first  statement  relaxed  into  one  of 
smiling  appreciation. 

"Why,  of  course,  he  is,  the  dear  boy,"  she  sup- 
plemented; "he  doesn't  have  his  old  aunt  to 
escort  every  day,"  while  Elinor  said  with  en- 
forced sweetness: 

"Run  away,  Lucile,  at  once,  darling,  and  see 
what  little  brother  is  doing." 

"Do  you  like  your  Mr.  Owen's  sermons, 
Preston?"  pursued  Aunt  Mary. 

"Best  I've  heard  in  years,"  said  her  nephew 
blandly. 

"And  is  the  music  good?" 

"Every  one  says  it's  fine." 

"Well,  you  are  fortunate,"  said  Aunt  Mary. 
She  looked  with  fond  affection  at  her  niece  and 
nephew. 

"It  is  delightful  to  find  myself  here  with  you 

[12]" 


When  Aunt  Mary  Came 


again,  and  also  to  find  you,  Preston,  the  same 
dear,  good  boy  you  always  were,  so  devoted  to 
your  church.  Remind  me,  Elinor,  when  we  go 
upstairs  to-night,  to  ask  you  for  an  ordinary 
rubber  band  —  you  doubtless  have  plenty  in 
your  desk;  I  saw  that  the  catch  of  one  of  the 
shutters  in  my  room  was  slightly  loose,  and  a 
rubber  band  will  secure  it  nicely.  And  before 
I  forget  it,  I  want  to  say  that  I  am  going  to  make 
an  old-fashioned  rice  pudding  for  you  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning,  so  that  it  will  be  cold  by 
dinner  time;  I  heard  you  say,  Elinor,  that 
your  maid  didn't  know  how  to  do  it  properly. 
It  is  so  delightful,  as  I  was  saying,  to  find  myself 
here  again  in  such  a  satisfactory  household. 
When  I  was  staying  last  month  at  the  Shaws',  it 
really  made  me  feel  dreadfully  to  find  how  lax 
Tom  had  become;  a  boy  who  was  in  my  own 
Sunday-school  class,  too!  Emma  says  that  he 
never  goes  to  church  with  her  any  more.  When 
I  spoke  to  him  about  it,  he  had  those  same  old 
foolish  excuses  to  offer  that  have  been  trumped 
up  since  the  year  one.  I've  no  patience  with 
them.  I  said  to  him:  'Tom  Shaw,  by  the  way 
you  go  on  about  hypocrites  in  the  church,  any- 
body'd  think  they  went  there  to  be  made  bad, 
instead  of  to  be  taught  what's  right,  even  if 
they  don't  follow  it.'  But  I  couldn't  help  feeling 
privately  that  it  was  mostly  Emma's  fault;  her 
influence  hasn't  been  what  the  influence  of  a 

[13] 


Refractory  Husbands 


wife  should  be  —  not  like  yours,  Elinor.  You 
don't  know  how  thankful  I  have  always  been 
that  my  dear  boy  has  had  your  high  character  to 
uphold  him." 

"I  say,"  remonstrated  Mr.  Chandor  to  his 
wife  when  they  were  at  last  alone,  after  she  had 
sought  high  and  low,  unavailingly,  for  the  needed 
rubber  band,  and  Aunt  Mary,  hovering  around 
after  her,  had  promised  to  buy  her  a  box  of  them 
in  the  morning,  "I  say,  Elinor,  you're  making  a 
regular  Ananias  and  Sapphira  out  of  me!  Do 
you  think  it's  right?  Aren't  you  afraid  retribu- 
tion will  overtake  me?" 

"  No,"  said  his  wife  stoutly;  "I'm  not.  You'll 
deserve  all  you'll  get,  anyhow!  Oh,  Preston,  I 
was  ready  to  shriek  once  or  twice!  But"  —  her 
tone  changed  —  "did  you  ever  see  anything  like 
the  way  children  always  let  out  just  what  you 
don't  want  them  to,  the  very  first  thing?  I 
could  have  slapped  Lucile!  And  it's  worse 
telling  them  beforehand  not  to  say  what  you 
don't  want  them  to  —  that's  fatal!  They  will 
always  ask  politely:  ' Mamma,  why  mustn't  I 
say  this  or  that?'  ' 

Her  mind  reverted  to  the  welcome  that  might 
be  made  by  members  of  the  congregation  to 
her  husband  next  Sunday.  The  Crandalls 
she  could  warn,  but  her  wifely  dignity  wouldn't 
let  her  take  others  into  this  demeaning  con- 
fidence. 


When  Aunt  Mary  Came 


The  culminating  day  of  the  week  assumed  an 
unusual  halo  that  coloured  all  the  hours  leading 
up  to  it  —  Elinor  wanted  that  Sunday  to  be 
perfect  not  only  in  its  highest  way,  but  in  all 
those  little  material  ways  that  show  the  festal 
spirit  in  them.  She  already  had  the  promise  of 
her  new  summer  silk  from  the  dressmaker  — 
a  simple  little  thing,  the  gray  and  white  stripe 
that  was  so  cool  looking,  and  that  Preston 
always  liked.  Her  hat  had  been  a  great  dis- 
appointment; it  was  a  very  large  hat.  She 
knew,  of  course,  when  she  bought  it  that  Pres- 
ton invariably  inveighed  against  large  hats,  but 
it  had  seemed  so  peculiarly  becoming  when  she 
tried  it  on,  both  to  herself  and  the  milliner,  be- 
sides being  so  exactly  "the  style/'  that  she  had 
been  sure  that  Preston  must  consider  it  becom- 
ing, too.  But  when  she  had  worn  it  for  the  first 
time,  and,  her  eyes  beseeching  approval,  she 
had  asked:  "How  do  you  like  my  new  hat, 
Preston?"  he  had  dashed  all  her  hopes  to  the 
ground  by  the  fell  words:  "I  don't  like  it  at 
all!" 

No  normal  woman  can  ever  take  any  satis- 
faction in  wearing  a  hat  that  her  husband  dis- 
likes. Elinor  had  sadly  felt  obliged  to  wear  hers, 
but  for  this  coming  Sunday  she  took  down  out 
of  the  closet  a  little  old  toque,  that  Preston  had 
always  admired  her  in,  and  that  fitted  down 
compactly  over  her  rippling  brown  hair,  and 

[15] 


Refractory  Husbands 


trimmed  it  with  a  bunch  of  pink  rosebuds,  to  be 
pleasing  in  his  sight  as  they  walked  from  the 
sanctuary.  Nor  did  her  preparations  stop  here; 
she  would  have  a  special  plate  of  corn  muffins 
for  his  breakfast  that  morning,  smothered 
chicken,  such  as  he  used  to  have  at  his  own  home 
when  a  boy,  for  dinner,  and  the  dessert  should 
be  boiled  apple  dumplings  with  hard  sauce. 

Elinor  never  could  quite  understand  why  the 
hot  boiled  apple  dumpling  should  appeal  so 
strongly  to  both  the  fancy  and  appetite  of  her 
husband;  if  he  were  asked,  at  any  time  of  the 
year,  what  he  would  like  for  dessert,  he  always 
unhesitatingly  answered,  "  Boiled  apple  dump- 
lings." 

From  the  morning  after  benevolent  Aunt 
Mary's  arrival,  the  household  had  benefited 
steadily  by  her  suggestions  and  assistance. 
The  promised  rice  pudding  had  been  made, 
indeed,  after  a  long  delay,  during  which  Aunt 
Mary,  in  a  white  apron,  sat  cheerfully  patient 
while  Elinor  strove  maddeningly  at  the  telephone, 
first  in  ordering  the  rice  and  nutmeg  —  which 
of  course  no  kitchen  storeroom  should  be  with- 
out—  and  then  in  asking  why  the  articles 
didn't  come,  and  then  in  striving  excitably  to 
point  out  the  fact  that,  even  if  they  were  "on 
the  wagon"  an  hour  ago,  they  were  of  no  cul- 
inary use  in  that  position.  But  the  rice  pudding, 
[16] 


When  Aunt  Mary  Came 


when  it  was  finally  set  before  them  at  night, 
was  of  the  creamiest,  most  delicious  variety, 
and  there  was  actually  enough  of  it  for  every- 
body, which  is  so  seldom  the  case  with  a  really 
good  rice  pudding. 

Aunt  Mary  hung  up  the  two  brooms  by  strings 
so  that  they  should  not  be  worn  out  by  resting 
on  the  floor,  reminding  the  maid  smilingly  of 
this  usage,  during  the  day;  she  made  dusters, 
and  little  bags  for  them,  disposing  them  con- 
veniently everywhere,  so  that  one  could  always 
dust  on  the  spot;  she  screwed  up  a  hook  behind 
the  side  door  where  Teddy  could  reach  it  to 
hang  his  hat,  under  her  kindly  supervision,  in 
strict  observance  of  this  rite. 

She  was  continually  saying  to  Elinor  as  the 
latter  hurried  about  her  avocations: 

"Now  do  sit  down  for  a  few  minutes,  dear, 
you're  tired;  you  may  not  know  it  now,  but 
you'll  feel  it  afterward.  'Rest  when  you  can!' 
that  has  always  been  my  motto.  A  young 
mother  never  realizes  how  much  vitality  she 
may  use  up  unnecessarily." 

Aunt  Mary  had  many  long,  serious,  and  up- 
lifting conversations  with  her  niece  on  the  sub- 
ject of  living,  based  on  the  thoughtful  experience 
of  a  courageous  woman  of  sixty-eight  who  had 
been  through  a  good  deal  in  her  day.  She  was 
so  indefatigably  kind  and  resourceful  and  help- 
ful, her  advice  was  so  indisputably  good,  that 

[17] 


Refractory  Husbands 


Elinor  was  horrified  to  find  herself  at  times  wish- 
ing that  she  might  weakly  relapse  unnoticed 
into  doing  things  hit  or  miss,  in  her  own  natural 
way,  even  though  it  mightn't  be  the  best  one  at 
all,  instead  of  having  everything  arranged  for 
her.  Even  Preston  showed  an  occasional  fret- 
ting of  the  bit  under  prolonged  instruction. 

It  was  in  vain  to  deny  that  kind  Aunt  Mary, 
beloved  as  she  certainly  was,  had  a  will  of  her 
own;  it  was  impossible  to  gainsay  her;  as  every- 
thing was  for  one's  own  good,  it  would  have 
seemed  the  part  of  the  ingrate  to  strive  to  balk 
her,  even  if  the  striving  had  been  of  any  use. 
Yet  with  that,  perhaps,  natural  weariness  of  the 
flesh,  on  her  young  relative's  part,  was  mingled 
Elinor's  deep  gratitude  at  Aunt  Mary's  uncon- 
scious influence  over  Preston  in  the  matter  of 
the  Sunday  observance.  There  was  soft  radi- 
ance, a  melting  happiness  in  Elinor's  eyes  at 
moments,  unknown  to  herself,  when  she  re- 
garded her  husband,  of  which  he  found  him- 
self tenderly  and  comprehendingly  conscious. 
His  wife  wasn't  like  most  women  —  there  was  a 
lot  she  never  talked  about. 

Others  were  thinking  of  the  day  as  well  as 
she.  Will  Crandall,  as  she  met  him  Saturday 
afternoon  coming  from  the  train,  announced 
that  he  had  applied  to  sing  two  solos  for  the 
occasion !  Mr.  Owen  took  off  his  hat  to  her  with 
a  smile  of  remembrance,  and  Lucia  Bannard 
[18] 


When  Aunt  Mary  Came 


herself  came  to  the  house  with  a  pensive,  up- 
lifted look  in  her  dark  eyes  and  some  sprays 
of  lilies  of  the  valley. 

"They  are  out  of  our  own  garden/'  she 
announced  in  her  low,  thrilling  voice.  "We 
are  all  going  to  wear  them  to  church  to-morrow. 
I  thought  if  you  and  your  husband  would  each 
wear  a  spray,  it  would  show  that  we  were  all 
together/' 

"Why,  that's  awfully  sweet  of  you/'  said 
Elinor,  kissing  her  friend  warmly. 

She  pinned  the  flower  in  her  husband's  button- 
hole the  next  morning,  when,  the  corn  muffins 
enjoyed  and  the  apple  dumplings  secretly 
accomplished,  she  was  all  ready  and  dressed  to 
set  out.  She  had  to  go  early  to-day,  that  was 
the  only  drawback,  on  account  of  substituting 
for  Miss  Green  with  that  lady's  Sunday-school 
class.  It  was  too  bad  that  she  couldn't  walk 
to  church  with  Preston,  but  she  would  walk  back 
with  him,  and  Aunt  Mary  would  love  to  have 
him  all  to  herself  going  there. 

"Lucia  Bannard  wanted  you  to  wear  this," 
she  announced.  "We  all  have  them  in  honour 
of  the  occasion." 

"Why,  that's  nice  of  her,"  said  Preston,  very 
much  surprised,  but  rather  pleased.  She  stood 
there  in  her  gray-and-white  striped  silk  and  the 
little  hat,  with  a  bunch  of  pink  rosebuds,  fram- 
ing her  rippling  hair,  her  soft  blue  eyes  gazing 

[19] 


Refractory  Husbands 


up  at  him  with  that  new,  happy  light  in  them. 
He  drew  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her,  his  arms 
lingering  around  her  as  he  whispered: 

"  You're  an  awfully  nice  woman,  do  you  know 
that?  Best  wife  I  ever  had." 

The  day  was  beautiful,  though  warm;  the 
walk  to  church  was  long,  but  Elinor  was  not 
tired.  Lucile  and  Teddy  went  prattling  along 
beside  her. 

By  some  miraculous  sixth  sense,  after  reach- 
ing Sunday-school,  though  she  hardly  heard 
what  the  children  in  the  class  were  reciting,  or 
asking  her,  she  seemed  to  be  equal  to  the  re- 
quirements of  the  situation.  Her  mind  was 
bent  on  the  triumphant  moment  that  was  com- 
ing, when  she  should  be  in  her  own  pew  and, 
looking  up,  see  Aunt  Mary's  fine,  fresh-coloured 
face,  her  gray  hair  and  her  stately  presence, 
coming  down  the  aisle  with  —  Preston;  Preston, 
tall,  well-dressed  and  fine-looking;  nay,  hand- 
some! He  mightn't  be  handsome  to  any  one 
else,  but  he  was  to  her. 

She  was  in  the  pew  at  last,  Lucile  and  Teddy 
had  gone  home.  People  came  in  gradually, 
by  twos  and  threes;  the  organ  was  playing  the 
voluntary  —  then  more  people;  the  church  was 
filling  up,  yet  none  from  her  household  appeared. 
The  choir-boys  were  entering,  singing  lustily; 
she  stood  up,  still  no  one !  Had  anything  hap- 
[20] 


When  Aunt  Mary  Came 


pened?  She  saw,  with  swift-beating  heart,  the 
house  on  fire  —  Aunt  Mary  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy 
-  Preston  stabbed  by  a  passing  tramp ! 

The  service  began,  still  no  one!  But  as  she 
knelt,  some  one  slipped  into  the  pew  beside  her, 
and  Aunt  Mary,  flushed  and  breathing  hard, 
yet  composed,  slid  with  competent  facility  into 
prayer. 

Elinor  had  to  wait  until  they  arose,  to  ask 
agonizingly,  "Has  anything  happened?"  and 
receive  Aunt  Mary's  decisive  shaking  of  the 
head  and  the  words,  framed  laboriously,  almost 
inaudibly,  with  her  lips: 

"I  had  a  telegram  just  as  I  was  starting;  I  will 
have  to  leave  immediately  after  dinner  to  see 
my  brother  to-morrow  before  he  sails." 

"And  Preston?"  breathed  the  wife. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  him  later,"  nodded  Aunt 
Mary  quietly,  and  relapsed  prohibitively  into 
worship. 

"You  see,  my  dear,  it  was  this  way,"  she 
announced,  when  the  service  was  over  and  they 
were  free  of  the  congregation  and  the  amused 
I-told-you-so  looks  that  Elinor  could  feel  passing 
over  her.  Aunt  Mary's  kind  face  shone  ten- 
derly on  her  young  companion  as  they  walked 
along  under  the  green  branches  of  the  spreading 
elms.  "My  dear,  you  may  not  have  noticed  it 
-he  kept  up  until  after  you  left  —  but  I 
couldn't  help  seeing  then,  when  I  was  alone 

[21] 


Refractory  Husbands 


with  Preston,  that  there  was  something  weighing 
on  the  dear  boy.  I  never  saw  any  one  get  so 
restless.  He  couldn't  keep  still  a  moment, 
though  I  was  reading  him  a  most  interesting 
article  on  the  Diseases  of  the  Throat  —  a 
subject  of  moment  to  every  one;  as  I  always 
say,  'An  ounce  of  prevention  is  worth  a  pound 
of  cure.'  He  had  such  a  line  between  his  eyes, 
and  there  was  a  strange  lassitude  about  him  that 
convinced  me  that  he  was  in  pain. 

"Of  course,  when  I  asked  him  if  there  was 
anything  the  matter,  he  denied  it  at  first  — 
men  always  do  —  but  I  just  said:  ' Preston, 
dearie,  if  you  think  you  can  hoodwink  your 
Aunt  Mary,  who  brought  you  up,  and  who 
knows  you  better  than  any  one  else,  dear,  you're 
much  mistaken.  I  know  you've  got  one  of  your 
bad  headaches,  and  there's  no  use  your  saying 
you  haven't.  I'm  the  last  person  to  advocate 
any  one  staying  home  from  church  as  a  usual 
thing,  but  there's  common  sense  in  all  things; 
you  don't  go  a  step  out  in  that  sun  to-day,  if  7 
know  it.  Well,  Elinor,  it  really  touched  me  to 
find  how  much  the  dear  boy  hated  to  miss  even 
one  service,  and  when  it  came  down  to  it,  I  could 
see,  besides,  that  he  thought  his  little  wife 
wouldn't  approve  of  his  absence;  but  this  time  I 
was  firm.  I  knew  you  would  understand." 
She  paused. 

[22] 


When  Aunt  Mary  Came 

"  Yes,"  said  Elinor,  striving  for  self-control. 

"He  didn't  want  to  go  upstairs  and  lie  down, 
but  I  left  him  in  the  shaded  corner  of  the  piazza/' 
went  on  Aunt  Mary  happily,  "stretched  out 
comfortably,  with  a  pillow  behind  his  head,  in 
the  steamer-chair,  with  the  collect,  epistle  and 
gospel  to  read  —  I  found  them  for  him  myself 
in  the  prayer-book  —  and  a  glass  of  water  beside 
him.  I  knew  you  really  wouldn't  mind  when  I 
told  you  the  facts  of  the  case.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  we  shall  find  him  much  better  on  our  return 
now.  And,  my  dear,  take  the  word  of  a  woman 
of  sixty-eight;  nothing  is  gained  by  forcing  a 
man  to  keep  up  to  a  certain  mark!  Preston 
can  be  safely  left  to  his  own  guidance. " 

"I  really  did  want  to  go,"  whispered  her 
husband,  in  ludicrous,  dismayed  protest,  as 
Elinor  bent  over  him.  "I  couldn't  help  it;  I 
give  you  my  word!" 

"I  know,"  whispered  his  wife  smilingly  in 
return.  She  pressed  her  cheek  against  his. 
"It's  going  to  be  just  the  same  for  me  as  if  you 
went.  And,  after  all "  —  she  stopped  a  moment 
before  she  murmured  shyly — "dear,  I  always 
take  you  in  my  heart  with  me  anyway,  when  I 
go  to  church.  I  didn't  need  to  have  Aunt  Mary 
come  for  that." 


[23] 


A  Friend  of  the  Married 


A  Friend  of  the  Married 

UCIA  BANNARD,  in  a  becoming  lav- 
ender  gown,  sat  in  her  pretty  yellow 
bedroom,  on  a  Sunday  morning,  gazing 
at  a  large  and  dingy  overcoat  spread  out  before 
her  on  the  bed. 

The  Bannards'  small  home  was  conceded  to  be 
one  of  the  most  charming  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Everything  with  which  Lucia  had  to  do  was 
perfect  so  far  as  taste  was  concerned;  even  the 
Brentwoods'  big  roomy  mansion,  with  its  old, 
harmonious  furnishings,  its  stacks  of  books  and 
air  of  comfort  and  prosperity,  couldn't  compare 
in  a  sort  of  exquisite,  inspiring  beauty  with  the 
Bannards'.  In  the  nine  years  of  her  married 
life  it  had  been  one  of  Lucia's  chief  objects  to 
gather  the  things  together  which,  as  she  ex- 
pressed it,  were  "right,"  even  if  the  house  had 
to  wait,  scantily  furnished,  from  Christmas  to 
Christmas,  for  a  chair,  or  bookcase,  or  rug. 

Lucia  herself  bore  out  the  character  of  the 
house.  She  was  a  beautiful  young  woman,  with 
a  slender  figure,  very  large  and  expressive  dark 
eyes,  a  short  upper  lip  with  a  proud  yet  infantile 

[27] 


Refractory  Husbands 


curve,  and  pale  golden  hair.  Her  taste  in  her 
own  dress  was  as  perfect  as  in  other  things. 
She  was  a  clever  manager,  and  never  told  any 
one  but  Elinor  Chandor,her  next  door  neighbour, 
how  little  her  clothes  cost :  she  seldom  talked  of 
any  of  her  economies.  Even  the  maid  who 
answered  the  door,  showed  an  extra  nicety  of 
cap  and  apron,  as  well  as  in  smiling  good  looks. 

Where  everything  was  so  esthetically  "right," 
the  one  discordant  note,  in  the  matter  of  suitable 
appearance,  was  Mrs.  Bannard's  husband:  he 
was  a  delightful  young  man,  but  he  would  not 
buy  clothes.  As  he  came  in  now,  tall,  happily 
light-footed,  with  a  noticeably  distinguished 
bearing  and  a  teasing  twinkle  in  his  nice  blue 
eyes,  she  interrupted  his  cheerful  if  tuneless 
whistle  to  say  abruptly,  as  her  eyes  wandered 
over  his  big  figure: 

"Donald,  you  will  have  to  order  your  new 
overcoat  at  once,  if  you're  going  up  to  the  head 
office  with  Rex  Courtney  on  the  first:  it's  only 
two  weeks  from  Wednesday!" 

"Why  do  I  need  a  new  one  when  I've  got 
this?"  asked  her  husband  with  prompt  con- 
clusiveness. 

"Why?  For  the  same  reason  I've  told  you 
twenty  times  before,  Donald  Bannard,  because 
this  one  is  worn  out!" 

"I  don't  see  anything  much  the  matter  with 
it,"  said  Mr.  Bannard  unimportantly. 

[28] 


A  Friend  of  the  Married 

He  took  up  the  garment  and  examined  it  with 

cheerfully  appraising  eye. 

"  All  it  needs,  is  to  have  a  few  little  things  done 
to  it :  a  new  collar,  perhaps  —  velvet  gets  worn  of 
course  —  and  the  buttonholes  worked  over  where 
they're  split,  and  the  lining  patched  up.  I 
don't  see  but  what  that  will  make  it  all  right 
for  this  winter;  lots  of  wear  in  that  coat 
yet!" 

"Donald  Bannard,  if  you  begin  talking  like 
that  again  after  all  I've  said  to  you  before, 
you'll  drive  me  raving  crazy !  You've  worn  that 
dreadful,  cheap  thing  —  I've  always  detested  it! 
-  for  five  years.  You've  had  the  collar  renewed 
three  times,  and  the  buttonholes  worked  over 
so  often  that  the  last  time  even  the  tailor  ob- 
jected to  doing  it.  If  you  have  it  done  again,  it 
will  take  buttons  the  size  of  tea-plates  to  hold 
them.  And  it's  all  frayed  out  around  the  wrists 
and  shiny  in  the  seams:  it's  horrid;  it's  dis- 
gusting! It  took  away  all  my  pleasure  every 
time  I  went  out  with  you  last  winter.  You 
owned,  yourself,  in  the  spring,  that  you 
could  never  put  it  on  again.  Whenever  I've 
spoken  to  you  about  it  since,  you've  promised 
me  you'd  go  to  Grandon's  this  fall  and 
order  a  really  handsome  coat,  good  material 
and  all,  the  kind  Rex  Courtney  wears.  And 
now " 

The  tears  welled  thickly  in  Mrs.  Bannard's 

[29] 


Refractory  Husbands 


lovely  eyes,  while  her  husband  obliviously 
searched  for  something  in  a  chiffonier  drawer, 
whistling  under  his  breath. 

"And  you  needn't  try  and  act  as  if  you  didn't 
care  when  I  speak  to  you  this  way:  you  ought 
to  care!  I  have  to  work,  and  work,  and  work, 
to  make  you  buy  the  ordinary  clothes  that  other 
men  get  as  a  matter  of  course.  If  you  hadn't 
the  money  now,  Donald,  I  wouldn't  say  a  word, 
but  when  I've  taken  such  pains  to  save  up 
enough  so  that  you  could  get  a  really  good 
coat  —  going  without  a  new  suit  myself,  though 
goodness  knows  I  need  one !  but,  then,  a  woman 
can  fix  up  things  to  cover  deficiencies,  and 
everything  does  show  so  on  a  man!  And  I've 
made  over  my  blue  satin  myself,  just  because 
I  had  set  my  heart  on  your  looking  as  you  ought. 
Are  you  listening?" 

"Yes,  I'm  listening,"  said  Mr.  Bannard, 
smiling  at  his  wife.  He  had  a  smile  that  in- 
variably charmed;  it  was  always  with  great 
effort  that  Lucia  withstood  it,  but  she  did  so 
now;  she  met  his  eyes  stolidly  as  he  continued 
with  growing  restiveness: 

"What  difference  does  it  make  what  I  have 
on,  anyway?  It's  my  own  affair  if  I  choose  to 
wear  what  I  please.  Great  Scott,  Lucia,  I'll 
be  so  busy  these  next  two  weeks,  I'm  nearly 
crazy  as  it  is;  I  haven't  time  to  go  hanging 
around  the  tailors.  All  this  talk  about  dress 

[30] 


A  Friend  of  the  Married 

makes  me  sick:  people  don't  judge  me  by  my 
clothes !" 

"  You're  very  much  mistaken,  that's  just 
what  lots  of  people  do  judge  you  by,"  returned 
his  wife  triumphantly.  "One  thing  is  certain, 
you  cannot  go  up  to  the  head  office  with  Rex 
Courtney  if  you  haven't  a  new  overcoat; 
I'd  die  of  mortification  if  you  did!  And 
if  you  think  going  up  there  looking  like  a 
tramp  will  advance  your  interests,  Donald 
Bannard " 

"Oh,  well,  then,  don't  say  another  word," 
said  Mr.  Bannard  in  a  slightly  raised  key. 
"Stop  right  there!  I'll  get  the  coat." 

"And  you  will  go  to  Grandon's  and  bring  home 
samples  of  cloth  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Look  here,  Lucia," 
Mr.  Bannard's  tone  changed  from  one  of 
reluctant  submission  to  that  of  masculine 
authority,  "have  you  been  taking  my  small 
screw-driver  out  of  this  drawer  again?" 

"No,  no,  I  haven't  taken  it!  Oh  —  yes, 
perhaps  I  did  take  it  for  just  a  moment.  Ellen 
wanted  one  for  the  wringer,  but  I  put  it  right 
back  again;  I'm  perfectly  positive." 

"Well,  you  didn't,"  said  her  husband  with- 
eringly.  He  faced  her  with  his  shoulders  thrown 
back  and  his  nice  blue  eyes  flashing  lightning. 
"How  many  times  have  I  told  you,  Lucia,  not 
to  touch  that  screw-driver?  Things  have  come 

[31] 


Refractory  Husbands 


to  a  pretty  pass  if  I  can't  keep  one  thing  of 
my  own  where  I  can  lay  my  hand  on  it!" 

"I  know  I  put  it  back,  but  I'll  go  and  look 
for  it  this  minute,"  said  his  wife,  hurrying  off 
with  placating  alacrity.  She  had  gained  her 
point! 

The  next  evening  he  really  brought  the  samples 
home  with  him,  and  studied  over  their  possibili- 
ties with  her,  in  as  deep  interest  as  if  he  hadn't 
fought  against  the  proceeding.  They  spent  the 
evening,  in  the  intervals  of  reading  and  con- 
versation, in  hanging  small  dabs  of  cloth  on  his 
coat-sleeve  and  considering  them  from  different 
angles.  There  were  all  the  ones  that  wouldn't 
do  at  all,  and  the  four  or  five  that  were  so 
attractive  that  one  hardly  knew  how  to  make  a 
choice.  But  both  at  last  fixed  on  an  Oxford 
gray  that  wasn't  an  Oxford  gray,  but  some- 
thing darker,  richer,  indescribably  satisfactory 
in  colour,  and  stylish,  as  Lucia  proclaimed,  to 
a  degree.  She  saw  Donald  in  prospect  in 
a  quiet-toned,  richly  soft,  superlatively  cut 
topcoat  that  would  even  surpass  that  of  Rex 
Courtney. 

Rex  Courtney  was  the  one  unmarried  man  in 
the  little  intimate  social  circle  of  which  the 
Bannards  composed  a  part.  There  were  other 
young  men  in  the  place,  of  course,  but  they 
were  of  the  ordinary  sort,  who  were  only  in- 
terested in  their  own  kind,  or  in  girls,  whereas 

[32] 


A  Friend  of  the  Married 

Rex  was  superlatively  the  friend  of  the  married. 
He  was  credited  with  having  had  an  affair 
of  the  heart  —  perhaps,  indeed,  two  or  three  - 
in  which  he  had  been,  colloquially,  so  "hard  hit" 
as  to  turn  his  mind  from  love  toward  the  less 
demanding  comforts  and  pleasures  of  friendship. 

He,  like  Donald  Bannard,  was  "in  Steel/'  but 
he  travelled  much  of  the  time  in  its  interests, 
often  returning  only  over  the  week-end,  and  so 
warmly  pleased  to  be  welcomed  in  the  houses  of 
his  more  fortunate  fellowmen  that  each  house- 
hold vied  with  the  other  in  the  possessiveness 
of  its  welcoming;  each  wife  wished  to  believe 
that  hers  was  the  abode  in  which  he  really 
felt  most  at  liberty  to  smoke  when  he  desired 
to,  and  ask  for  cake  when  he  wanted  it. 

He  was  a  favourite  with  all  the  men.  He 
was  indeed  an  extremely  nice  fellow,  cheery, 
entertaining,  and  indefatigably  considerate  of 
womankind,  performing  all  the  little  courteous 
attentions  which  their  husbands  meant  to  per- 
form, but  didn't;  he  brought  boxes  of  candy 
and  flowers,  and  never  forgot  the  children, 
who  were  devoted  to  him.  His  perfection  in 
these  respects,  instead  of  casting  a  slur  on  the 
husbands  seemed  on  the  contrary  to  raise  the 
standard  of  all  the  male  sex ;  the  men  concerned 
had  the  effect  of  generously  allowing  services 
that  belonged  to  them  by  right.  If  at  times 
he  strove  to  help  over  those  places  where  both 

[33] 


Refractory  Husbands 


husband  and  wife  from  their  inner  circle  knew 
that  no  help  was  needed,  they  only  smiled  at 
each  other  comprehendingly.  Lucia  liked  to 
feel  that  Donald  was  really  the  nicest  after  all. 

Rex  gave  the  impression  of  thinking  sym- 
pathetically: "If  /  could  get  as  charming  a 
wife  and  as  delightful  a  home  as  this,  you  bet 
it  wouldn't  be  long  before  I'd  have  them;  but 
I  know  very  well  it  can't  be  duplicated.  It's 
awfully  good  of  you  to  let  me  have  a  little 
corner  here." 

For  the  rest,  he  was  in  the  early  thirties,  not 
very  tall,  but  broad-shouldered,  fair,  clean- 
shaven, and  with  very  white  teeth;  as  Lucia 
Bannard  had  hinted,  he  was  always  notably 
well  dressed. 

The  women,  though  giving  him  his  title  in 
converse,  always  spoke  of  him  as  Rex  Courtney; 
there  was  something  in  the  name  itself  that 
showed  you  what  he  was  like.  The  men  called 
him,  familiarly,  Court. 

He  had  been  at  one  time  most  intimate  at 
the  Crandalls,  and  then  at  the  Chandors;  but 
lately  his  visits  had  grown  more  frequent  to 
the  Bannards,  with  whom,  though  the  latest 
known,  he  found  many  interests  in  common. 
He  and  Donald  were  both  ambitious  so  far  as 
Steel  was  concerned,  and  his  appreciation  of 
Lucia's  love  of  beauty  was  of  an  intelligent 
kind  which  she  didn't  usually  receive.  He  had, 

[341 ' 


A  Friend  of  the  Married 

besides,  a  real  masculine  force  that  made  his 
sympathetic  insight  of  her  aims  and  motives 
very  delightful  to  receive.  When  he  occasionally 
joked  with  Donald  on  some  solecism  in  the 
latter's  attire,  she  felt  deeply  —  though  she 
never  spoke  on  the  subject  to  Rex  Courtney  — 
that  he  saw  and  appreciated  her  troubles  in 
that  line. 

It  was  this  man  with  whom  Donald  was  to 
travel  in  company  to  report  at  the  head  office  on 
the  first  of  the  month. 

"Did  you  take  the  samples  back  to  Grandon's 
to-day?"  Lucia  asked  her  husband  anxiously 
the  next  night  after  he  had  come  home  from 
town. 

"Yes,"  said  Donald  lightly. 

"I  hope  to  goodness  you  showed  him  the 
right  sample ! " 

"I  certainly  did.  Grandon  says  it  will  make 
a  fine  coat." 

"And  when  will  it  be  finished,  dear?" 

"Oh,  some  time  within  the  next  two  weeks; 
before  the  first,  you  may  depend  on  that;  Grandon 
never  disappoints.  And,  look  here,  Lucia" — 
he  spoke  gently  but  firmly,  kissing  her  up- 
turned face  half  absently  as  if  it  were  some 
necessary  refreshment — "I  don't  want  to  be 
questioned  about  that  overcoat  every  night 
when  I  come  home!  When  it's  done  I'll  get 
it,  and  that  is  all  there  is  to  it.  And,  by  the 

[35] 


Refractory  Husbands 


way,  you  might  as  well  telephone  to  Bergwitz 
to-morrow,  and  have  him  send  over  for  the 
old  coat  and  put  it  in  some  kind  of  shape.  It 
may  turn  cold  suddenly." 

"Well,"  said  Lucia  grudgingly,  "I'd  like  to 
pitch  the  thing  out  of  the  window  this  very 
minute,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  get  pneumonia, 
of  course." 

It  did  turn  cold  by  the  end  of  the  following 
week,  that  bitter  cold  that  comes  sometimes 
in  late  November.  Only  the  thought  of  the 
beautiful  garment  her  husband  was  to  have,  sup- 
ported Lucia  in  the  ordeal  of  seeing  him  in  the 
old  one.  The  tailor's  art  had  somehow  failed 
him  in  the  renovation;  perhaps  he  had  tried 
it  so  often  that  he  had  lost  heart;  those  awful 
buttonholes  sprawling  over  one  side,  the  thread- 
bare edge,  its  indescribable  air  of  rustiness  and 
collapse,  were  accentuated  by  the  new  velvet 
of  the  collar.  It  took  enormous  self-control  on 
Lucia's  part  not  to  burst  out  at  him  violently 
when  he  put  it  on.  A  pregnant,  withheld 
silence,  in  which  she  was  apparently  oblivious 
of  her  husband,  always  made  him  demonstra- 
tively affectionate,  while  she,  on  the  other 
hand,  became  warmest  when  he  was  cool. 
Sometimes  things  went  his  way,  and  sometimes 
they  went  her  way;  and  no  human  power  could 
ever  predict  whose  day  it  was  going  to  be.  They 

[36] 


A  Friend  of  the  Married 

were  a  young  couple  who,  on  the  whole,  found 
great  interest  in  life. 

It  was  on  the  Monday  evening  before  the 
trip,  and  while  Lucia  was  hourly  expecting  the 
arrival  of  the  new  garment,  that  Donald  came 
home  earlier  than  usual,  particularly  brisk  and 
affectionate. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  going  to  town  for  a  little 
treat  to-night?"  he  asked.  " Somebody  gave 
Court  three  tickets  for  the  opera,  and  he  wants 
us  to  meet  him  in  town  after  an  early  dinner. 
Can  you  make  it?  " 

"Can  I  make  it!"  cried  Lucia  rapturously. 
She  flew  at  her  husband  and  embraced  him, 
while  he  fished  in  his  pockets  for  a  time-card. 
"I  can  get  dressed  in  five  minutes.  You'll 
have  to  change,  yourself;  you'll  wear  your 
evening  clothes,  of  course." 

"Oh,  it  never  takes  me  long  to  get  into  them," 
said  her  husband  easily.  To  do  Donald  justice 
he  never  minded  wearing  clothes  when  he  had 
them:  it  was  the  bother  of  getting  them  at  which 
he  balked. 

She  surveyed  her  husband  with  pride  and 
pleasure  when  he  was  arrayed  in  his  handsome, 
well-fitting  evening  togs.  Heaven  only  knows 
what  she  had  gone  through  before  they  were 
accomplished,  long  after  his  original  suit  had 
grown  too  small  for  him!  The  last  time  he 
had  worn  the  latter  was  at  a  wedding.  She  had 

[37] 


Refractory  Husbands 


begged  and  prayed  him  for  three  weeks  before- 
hand, ever  since  the  cards  were  out,  on  their 
return  from  the  summer  vacation,  to  get  those 
clothes  down  and  try  them  on,  and  he  wouldn't, 
with  the  result  that  the  very  night  of  the  fes- 
tivity he  had  had  to  have  the  waistcoat  split  up 
the  back,  because  it  wouldn't  button  in  front, 
and  her  sister  Bess  had  inserted  a  wedge-shaped 
piece:  Lucia  was  so  angry  that  she  wouldn't 
touch  a  needle  to  it!  When  he  put  on  the  coat, 
it  skewered  him  to  that  degree  that  he  looked 
ridiculously  like  a  trussed  chicken.  He  couldn't 
move  all  the  evening  for  fear  of  its  splitting. 
That  had  settled  it:  he  had  ordered  a  suit  the 
next  day,  but  his  surrender  taught  him  no 
lesson. 

The  one  drawback  to  the  evening  now  was 
that  that  fiendish  overcoat  had  to  be  put  on 
above  his  splendour.  She  fancied  that  Rex 
Courtney's  eyes  took  note  of  it  curiously. 
She  felt  his  underlying  sympathy  with  her  when 
he  complimented  her  later  on  the  becomingness 
of  her  pale  blue  satin  —  under  her  lovely 
white  cloak  —  with  its  tunic  and  tight  skirt, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  day,  and  the  blue, 
silvered  bandeau  in  her  golden  hair. 

"You  have  the  art  of  making  whatever  you 
wear  look  as  if  it  were  the  one  perfect  thing," 
he  announced;  and  she  did  not  think  it  neces- 

[38] 


A  Friend  of  the  Married 

sary  to  inform  him  that  the  gown  was  one  of 
her  exquisite  economies,  made  over  laboriously 
by  her  own  fingers,  so  that  her  money  .for  a 
new  one  might  swell  the  fund  for  her  darling 
Donald's  overcoat.  He  was  careless  as  to  his  ex- 
penditures; his  money  was  apt  to  melt  as  soon 
as  he  touched  it;  she  had  to  be  the  wise  provider ! 

Yet  there  was  something  in  Rex  Courtney's 
praise  now  that  she  found  vaguely  haunting 
her.  It  wasn't  in  what  he  said,  but  in  something 
he  hadn't  said,  something,  she  was  sure,  that 
he  had  wanted  to  speak  of;  she  felt  it  all  through 
the  opera. 

" Thank  you  for  a  most  delightful  evening; 
it's  been  a  joy!"  she  breathed  fervently  when 
they  were  parting  at  last  on  the  home  doorstep, 
and  he  had  answered  simply: 

"I'm  so  glad  you  liked  it;  it's  been  a  great 
pleasure  to  me,"  and  added,  turning  to  Donald: 

"We'll  have  to  do  this  oftener,  together,  the 
three  of  us.  I  don't  know  of  any  one  who  has 
a  greater  appreciation  of  beauty  and  a  good 
time  than  your  wife,  Bannard!"  Both  men 
looked  at  her  affectionately. 

"You're  about  right  there,  Court!"  said 
Bannard  with  his  hand  on  Lucia's  arm. 

To  have  Rex  Courtney  speak  in  that  way 
about  her!  Nell  Crandall  and  her  husband 
used  to  get  all  Rex  Courtney's  extra  tickets, 
but  now ! 

1 39] 


Refractory  Husbands 


She  wondered  again  the  next  morning,  how- 
ever, what  it  was  that  he  didn't  say. 

But  she  said  to  her  husband  suddenly  before 
he  left: 

"  Donald,  do  you  realize  that  that  overcoat 
hasn't  come  home  yet,  and  you  start  to-morrow 
night?" 

"  Yes,  Lucia,  I  realize  it,"  he  answered  tersely. 

"Be  sure  and  see  about  it  to-day.  Don't 
chance  their  sending  it.  Wear  it  home,  and 
let  them  send  the  one  you  have  on.  I'd  have  a 
fit  if  anything  went  wrong  about  it." 

"Look  here,  Lucia,  who's  getting  this  over- 
coat, you  or  I?"  he  asked  imperturbably. 

"Goodness  knows  that,  if  I  had  been  getting 
it,  you'd  have  had  one  long  before  this,"  replied 
Lucia  with  a  desperate  gesture  and  a  theatrical 
moan. 

It  did  not  arrive  during  the  day,  nor  did  he 
wear  it  home.  Lucia,  on  tenterhooks,  after 
the  first  moment's  questioning,  subsided;  she 
saw  that  look  on  her  husband's  face  which  warned 
off  speech.  She  could  get  nothing  out  of  him, 
except  that  it  would  be  all  right  the  next  day; 
otherwise,  as  she  confessed  to  herself,  he  was  as 
dear  as  only  he  could  be.  He  had  brought 
her  a  box  of  marrons  as  a  solace  after  he  left, 
and  was  so  delightful  a  lover  that  she  couldn't 
bear  to  mar  the  hour  in  any  way. 

[40] 


A  Friend  of  the  Married 

All  Wednesday  she  looked  forward  to  the 
moment  when  he  would  arrive,  resplendent,  for 
those  last  couple  of  hours  before  going  in  town 
again  to  start  off  for  the  night. 

At  his  footfall  she  rushed  downstairs  and 
turned  up  the  hall  light,  that  his  effulgence 
might  burst  upon  her.  Instead,  he  stood 
there  as  usual,  taking  the  newspapers  out  of 
the  worn  pockets  of  his  old  coat. 

"  Donald  Bannard!"  she  began  wildly,  before 
he  stopped  her  with  a  gesture : 

"  There's  no  use  your  saying  anything.  I 
never  ordered  the  coat;  that's  all!" 

"  You  never  ordered  it!  You  told  me  yourself 
that  you  went  to  Grandon's;  you  - 

"I  did  go  to  Grandon's,  and  showed  him  the 
sample  we  picked  out,  but  I  was  in  such  a  tearing 
rush  that  I  couldn't  even  wait  to  be  measured 
then;  I  said  I'd  be  over  the  next  morning.  I've 
honestly  expected  every  single  day  to  go  in, 
but  I've  been  so  all-fired  busy  that  I  just 
haven't  had  a  minute.  Great  Scott,  Lucia, 
when  a  man  has  as  much  to  see  to  as  I've  had 
lately,  you  can't  expect  him  to  bother  about 
such  a  little  thing  as  clothes!  I've  been  nearly 
wild.  You  will  just  have  to  let  me  go  on  as  I 
am  till  things  straighten  out  a  bit  and  I  have 
more  time." 

"Oh,  that's  the  way  you  always  talk,"  said 
his  wife  bitterly.  Her  large  eyes  dwelt  on  him 

[41] 


Refractory  Husbands 


with  a  tragic  despair.  She  had  nothing  to  say: 
it  was  too  dreadful.  She  had  done  her  best;  if  he 
made  a  bad  impression  at  the  office,  she  couldn't 
help  it.  What  was  the  use  of  struggling  any 
more?  Perhaps  he  had  been  too  busy.  She 
had  a  strange,  forlorn,  feminine  pride  in  his 
being  beyond  her  control,  even  in  her  despair. 
She  did  not  see  how  she  could  ever  say  any 
more  to  him  about  that  overcoat  than  she  had 
said. 

She  had  thought  this  the  height  of  the  situa- 
tion, but  there  was  a  peak  beyond,  unseen  as 
yet.  In  the  three  days  before  his  return  she 
found  herself  growing  tired,  incapable  in  thought 
of  managing  things.  She  wasn't  used  to  being 
without  Donald,  and  she  seemed  to  be  illimit- 
ably  homesick  for  him.  She  wanted  to  feel  his 
dear  hand;  she  could  forgive  him  temporarily 
for  his  tacit  deception  of  her  if  he  would  only 
come  back. 

But  the  step  on  the  piazza,  when  it  did  come, 
was  not  Donald's,  but  Rex  Courtney's. 

" Where's  Donald?"  she  asked  anxiously  as 
she  greeted  him. 

"Oh,  he's  all  right.  He  had  business  that 
detained  him.  I  came  on  this  morning,"  said 
Rex.  "He  asked  me  to  leave  these  papers  here 
for  him  and  to  tell  you  he'd  be  out  on  the  last 
train.  I'll  only  sit  down  for  a  moment." 

[42] 


A  Friend  of  the  Married 

"Did  you  have  a  nice  trip?"  she  asked  per- 
functorily. 

"Yes,  it  was  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Courtney 
with  a  reminiscent  smile.  "Donald's  a  fine 
travelling  companion.  The  company  gave  us 
a  bang-up  supper  the  other  night,  too.  I  got 
my  promotion.  I  hope  Donald  will  get  his 

soon;  but "  Rex  paused,  and  slapped  his 

knee  meditatively  with  the  gloves  he  held  in 
his  right  hand. 

"There's  something  that's  been  on  my  mind 
for  some  time,  Mrs.  Bannard.  I  wonder  if 
you'll  let  me  speak  to  you  about  it  now?"  He 
faced  her  earnestly.  "It  concerns  Donald." 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Lucia,  confusedly  agi- 
tated. What  did  he  mean?  What  could  he 
mean? 

"Well,  it's  just  this,  Mrs.  Bannard:  Ronald 
ought  to  be  more  particular  about  his  dress. 
A  woman  is  apt  to  think  that  only  her  own 
clothes  matter;  she  spends  on  them  all  the 
money  her  husband  can  spare,  as  a  usual 
thing.  It's  her  right,  of  course,  to  make  herself 
look  charming  —  no  one  knows  how  better 
than  you,  Mrs.  Bannard  —  but  it's  a  mistake 
to  think  that  a  man's  clothes  don't  matter  just 
as  much;  it  is  indeed!  A  woman  doesn't  see 
the  business  side  of  it:  it  makes  a  great  differ- 
ence in  many  ways  if  a  man  looks  well  dressed, 

[43] 


Refractory  Husbands 


prosperous;  respectable,  in  short!  Other  peo- 
ple place  much  more  confidence  in  him.  Now 

that  overcoat  your  husband  wears "  Rex 

lowered  his  voice  tenderly  as  his  eyes  dwelt 

on  the  downcast  face  of  his  pretty  hostess 

"  Really,  Mrs.  Bannard,  you  should  never 
have  let  him  off  in  a  thing  like  that;  it  gives  every 
one  a  wrong  impression,  and  he's  such  an  all 
around  fine  fellow,  I  hate  to  see  it.  You  feel  all 
right,  don't  you,  Mrs.  Bannard?  You  haven't 
been  ill?  Of  course  I  know  that  no  matter  what 
he  has  on  he  looks  all  right  to  you;  that's  the 
woman  of  it!"  He  smiled  encouragingly  as 
he  rose. 

"I'm  sure  it  is  only  a  little  thought  on  your 
part  that  is  needed.  You  will  forgive  me,  Mrs. 
Bannard,  won't  you,  for  taking  so  much  upon 
me?"  He  looked  at  her  anxiously.  "Really 
you  don't  seem  well." 

"Oh,  I'm  perfectly  well,"  said  Lucia,  con- 
trolling her  voice  by  a  superhuman  effort.  It 
was  as  much  as  she  could  do  not  to  let  herself 
burst  forth  in  towering  hysterical  wrath  at 
this  unspeakable  blunderer. 

Instead,  she  achieved,  for  the  moment,  a 
languid,  chill  carelessness  of  voice  and  manner 
as  she  went  on: 

"I  think,  however,  with  all  your  kind  inten- 
tions, you  are  just  a  little  mistaken;  outsiders 
often  are,  don't  you  think?  A  man  like  my 

[44]. 


A  Friend  of  the  Married 

husband  has  no  fear  of  being  judged  by  his 
clothes;  he  dresses  entirely  to  please  himself, 
and  /  should  never  think  of  interfering.  But 
I'm  sure  you  meant  well.  Good  night!" 

That  night  a  tall  young  man  in  an  old  over- 
coat plunged  from  the  last  train  into  the  snow 
that  was  beginning  to  fall,  and  walked  with 
cheerful,  anticipative  steps  toward  his  home, 
happily  unconscious  of  the  tempest  that  he 
was  to  be  called  upon  to  soothe  when  he  got 
there.  But  it  has  been  noticed  since  that 
there  has  been  no  better  dressed  man  in  the 
place  than  Donald  Bannard,  beginning  with 
that  very  handsome  overcoat  which  even 
threw  in  the  shade  that  of  Rex  Courtney's, 
wko,  by  the  way,  doesn't  seem  to  visit  the 
Bannards  as  much  as  formerly,  Lucia  owning 
to  Elinor  Chandor  that  they  found  him  rather 
stupid  at  times.  Perhaps  a  friend  of  the 
married  is  most  successful  in  that  capacity 
when  he  is  content  simply  to  admire,  and  does 
not  dash  in  where  wiser  men  might  fear  to  say 
a  word. 


[45] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


Father's   Little  Joke 

[OTHER,  don't  you  think  we  might  in- 
vite the  Iversons  here  next  week?" 

It  was  Winifred  Brentwood  who 
spoke;  she  was  the  dark-haired  one,  while  her 
sister  Audrey  was  fair.  Both  were  unusually 
tall  and  beautiful  girls.  When  people  asked 
pretty,  plump  Mrs.  Brentwood  if  it  didn't  make 
her  feel  old  to  have  such  grown  up  young 
daughters,  she  only  smiled  a  superior  disclaimer 
—  the  people  who  could  ask  you  such  a  question 
wouldn't  understand  if  you  told  them  how 
delightful  it  was  to  be  a  girl  again  in  the 
intimate  company  of  two  others,  who  treated 
her  at  times  with  a  disrespectful  comradeship 
that  she  adored!  She  looked  fondly  now  at 
Winifred  as  the  latter  continued: 

"If  Audrey  and  I  hadn't  met  Leslie  Iverson 
last  month  in  Denver  I  shouldn't  feel  the  same 
way  about  it.  Of  course  we  only  saw  him  twice, 
but  he  was  so  very  nice,  and  he  seemed  so 
anxious  to  have  us  know  his  mother.  I  told 
him,  momsey,  that  you  and  she  had  exchanged 
calls  last  winter,  but  that  I  knew  you  were  going 

[49] 


Refractory  Husbands 


to  invite  her  to  the  house  as  soon  as  Audrey  and 
I  got  back.  I  want  to  have  everything  as 

attractive  as  possible "  she  paused,  and 

added  impulsively:  "He  is  so  nice;  I'd  like 
her  to  think  we  are  nice,  too!  Not  that  I 
expect  to  see  anything  of  him  when  he  comes 
east  at  the  end  of  the  month  —  he  is  here  so 
seldom  and  stays  such  a  short  while,  that  they 
want  him  at  home  all  the  time.  His  mother 
always  has  a  house-party  for  him  over  the  week- 
end." 

"Yes,  and  I  know  that  he  hopes  she'll  ask 
us,"  chimed  in  the  younger  sister  eagerly.  "He 
says  they  have  a  grand  time." 

Winifred's  cheeks  glowed  consciously.  "Au- 
drey, how  you  talk !  It's  not  at  all  likely  that 
she  will  even  think  of  it!" 

Mrs.  Brentwood  gave  a  penetrative  glance  at 
her  daughter,  but  she  only  said  matter-of-factly : 

"Of  course  we  ought  to  have  had  the  Iversons 
here  long  ago.  It  is  nearly  a  year  since  they 
moved  into  the  place,  but  there  always  seems 
to  be  so  much  going  on " 

She  stopped  with  a  reminiscent  sigh.  The 
Brentwoods,  in  their  comfortable,  roomy,  pros- 
perous house,  practised  such  continuous  hap- 
hazard hospitality  that  it  was  hard  to  know 
where  to  sandwich  in  formal  entertaining  such 
as  this  of  the  Iversons  would  have  to  be.  The 
Iversons  were  not  only  very  much  richer  than 

[50] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


any  one  else  in  the  little  community  —  Mr. 
Iverson  being  many  times  a  millionaire  — 
but  they  were  rigidly  correct  and  elegant  both 
in  appointment  and  demeanour;  as  one  might 
say,  "icily  regular,  splendidly  null."  The 
time  Mrs.  Brentwood  had  called,  the  tea  things 
and  biscuits  had  been  brought  in  by  two  butlers; 
one  couldn't  imagine  anything  haphazard  in 
connection  with  the  Iversons. 

"  Shall  we  ask  them  to  dinner?  "  she  went  on. 

"No,  no,  not  dinner!  Luncheon,"  answered 
Winifred.  "Mother,  stop  pulling  at  your  waist ! 
That  isn't  the  way  to  make  it  stay  down.  Lean 
over  to  me  a  moment.  You  do  get  your  hair 
so  tight  at  the  sides!  There,  that's  better." 
She  gave  the  offending  parent  an  affectionate 
pat.  "I  think  it  had  better  be  luncheon." 

"Then  we  can't  have  Mr.  Iverson." 

"No,  we'll  just  ask  Mrs.  Iverson  and  her 
sister.  We  won't  try  to  have  any  men;  Mr. 
Iverson  is  so  delicate  that  he  probably  wouldn't 
come." 

"Father  doesn't  care  for  that  sort  of  thing 
anyway,"  said  Audrey. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  "No,  your 
father  doesn't  care  for  that  kind  of  thing," 
corroborated  Mrs.  Brentwood.  They  had  all 
known  from  the  beginning  that  they  would 
decide  on  the  luncheon,  and  why. 

Mr.   Brentwood   was   a   tall,  strongly  built 

[51] 


Refractory  Husbands 


man  of  fifty,  with  an  almost  military  bearing, 
a  handsome  gray  head,  fine  features,  a  gray 
moustache,  and  an  infectious  smile.  His  family 
adored  father,  who,  in  addition  to  his  noble- 
mindedness,  unselfishness,  and  sweet  temper, 
was  generous  to  a  degree,  and  always  thinking 
of  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  his  family. 
He  was  one  of  those  fathers  of  whom  there  are 
not  too  many,  whose  duty  to  them  did  not 
end  with  providing  money  —  his  children  were 
as  much  a  matter  of  his  intimate  care  and  com- 
panionship, if  in  different  ways,  as  they  were 
their  mother's;  his  responsibility  for  them  was 
always  back  of  hers,  to  be  trustfully  relied  on 
and  appealed  to.  Mrs.  Brentwood  looked 
with  wonder  not  unmixed  with  disdain  at  the 
women  who  actually  boasted  of  having  the 
sole  management  of  their  boys  and  girls.  Mr. 
Brentwood  was  well  born,  well  educated,  and 
successful  in  affairs.  He  had,  in  the  eyes  of 
his  family,  but  one  fault:  he  had  a  masculine 
sense  of  humour  of  a  homely,  almost  rural 
type,  at  which  they  winced  uncontrollably. 
Mrs.  Brentwood,  even  from  the  earliest  days 
of  their  marriage,  had  been  wont  to  implore 
her  Theodore,  when  they  were  expecting  com- 
pany, not  to  be  "funny." 

Certain  jokes  or  mannerisms  of  his  at  the 
table  were  of  daily  occurence.  Hardly  noticed 
any  more  when  they  were  alone,  they  sprung 

[52] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


unto  startling  prominence  when  there  were 
guests.  He  always  said:  " People  come  from 
miles  around  to  hear  us  drink  soup."  He  jovially 
inquired  if  he  might  "  borrow  the  butter/7  or 
if  Ellen,  the  waitress,  could  "spare  him  another 
slice  of  bread."  He  made  puns  on  the  vege- 
tables, and  he  had  a  habit  of  looking  with  sudden 
suspicion  at  any  dish  handed  to  him,  no  matter 
how  familiar,  and  asking  disgustedly,  "What 
is  this  anyway?"  Strangers  always  inspired 
him  particularly  to  their  entertainment.  Cer- 
tain ancient,  inherited  anecdotes  could  be 
endured  by  his  wife  and  children,  even  if  with 
aching  strain,  but  there  was  a  bath-tub  story 
(Mr.  Brentwood  had  in  his  early  boyhood 
migrated  with  his  parents  to  what  was  then  the 
edge  of  the  prairie)  beginning  mendaciously: 
"You  know  we  never  took  baths  when  I  was 
a  boy,"  that,  though  it  was  amusing,  nearly 
went  beyond  the  pale  of  refinement,  and  an 
awful  tooth-brush  story  which  positively  did. 
If  people  laughed  at  his  stories,  Mr.  Brentwood 
became  practically  untrammelled. 

It  was  better  indeed  to  ask  the  Iversons  to 
luncheon!  No  matter  how  deeply  he  was 
warned  against  it,  father  would  have  his  little 
joke. 

There  was  a  distinct  glow  of  satisfaction 
when  Mrs.  Iverson  and  her  sister,  Miss  Loomis, 

[53] 


Refractory  Husbands 


promptly  accepted  the  invitation;  it  amounted 
almost  to  a  feeling  of  proprietorship  in  them 
when  they  were  seen  passing  in  one  of  their 
many  automobiles.  And  there  was  a  further 
glow  of  satisfaction  when  the  morning  of  the 
festivity  heralded  a  perfectly  beautiful  autumn 
day. 

"Did  father  go  to  town?"  asked  Winifred 
suddenly,  as  she  bent  over  the  gorgeous  mass 
of  flowers  she  was  arranging  for  the  table. 

"No,"  said  the  mother,  "he  drove  up  to  the 
golf  club  for  the  tournament." 

"To    the   golf   club!    Then  won't   he 

Audrey  stopped  short. 

"When  your  father  goes  to  the  links,  he 
never  comes  home  till  six  o'clock,"  said  the 
mother  tranquilly. 

"Unless  his  leg  troubles  him,"  suggested 
Audrey  blankly. 

Mr.  Brentwood  had  had  a  slight  accident 
the  year  before  that  occasionally  disabled  him. 
He  always  referred  to  the  cause  as  "that  infernal 
ligament." 

"Oh,  it  hasn't  troubled  him  this  fall,"  said 
Mrs.  Brentwood,  gazing  secretly  at  Winifred 
bending  over  the  flowers.  She  had  a  little 
uneasy  divination  that  Winifred,  who  was  usually 
unimpressionable,  had  been  more  "taken"  with 
Leslie  Iverson  than  the  girl  herself  realized. 
Once  in  a  while  Audrey's  glance,  meeting  her 

[54] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


mother's,  seemed  to  confide  the  same  thought. 
Even  if  she  had  only  met  him  twice  —  Winifred 
had  changed  in  some  way.  Mrs.  Brentwood, 
as  she  looked  carefully  over  her  lace-edged 
plate-doilies  to  see  that  there  was  no  imper- 
fection in  them,  sighed  unconsciously,  as  she 
thought  of  that  new  look  in  Winifred's  eyes, 
with  the  aching,  mature  knowledge  of  the  fre- 
quent, crude  denial  of  the  opportunities  of 
life  in  spite  of  the  young  rosy  vision  that  creates 
them. 

The  Iversons,  with  their  retinue  of  servants, 
might  readily  be  supposed  to  have  none  of  the 
delightfully  intimate  pleasure  of  preparation 
for  a  festivity  that  was  the  habit  of  the  Brent- 
woods.  It  was  a  part  of  the  enjoyment  of 
the  thing,  though  the  preparations  indeed 
had  their  distracting  side  when  it  was  found 
that  the  best  lace  centrepiece  had  been  put 
away  by  a  careless  maid,  with  a  spot  of  chocolate 
on  it;  also,  when  Mrs.  Brentwood  temporarily 
mislaid  the  key  to  the  trunk  containing  the 
fancy  silver,  and  two  of  the  tall  goblets  had 
mysteriously  become  cracked  since  the  last 
using.  There  was  quite  an  argument  as  to 
whether  the  round  table  should  be  made  large 
for  six  or  kept  without  the  extra  leaf,  but  Wini- 
fred insisted  that  it  was  cosier  small.  Every- 
thing seemed  perfect  when  it  was  finished; 
no  table,  with  the  efforts  of  ten  butlers,  could 

[ssi 


Refractory  Husbands 


have  looked  more  exquisite.  There  was  a 
serene  security  as  to  the  food;  it  was  always, 
as  some  one  had  proclaimed,  "the  best  ever." 
The  family,  dressed  competently  on  time,  in 
the  drawing-room,  were  each  a  credit  to  the 
other;  Mrs.  Brentwood  in  a  becoming  mauve 
robe,  Audrey  in  blue,  and  Winifred  in  the  white 
gown  and  scarlet  ribbons  that  suited  her  dark 
hair  and  glowing  cheeks  and  lips  so  well.  When 
the  bell  rang,  they  congratulated  themselves 
on  being  ready;  but  it  was,  after  all,  only 
pretty  young  Mrs.  Bannard,  as  first  arrival, 
full  of  neighbourly  behind-the-scenes  interest. 

"How  lovely  it  all  looks/'  she  breathed  as 
she  seated  herself  by  Winifred.  "I  took  a  peep 
in  the  dining-room  as  I  came  in." 

"YouVe  met  Mrs.  Iverson  and  her  sister 
before,  haven't  you,  Lucia?"  asked  Mrs. 
Brentwood. 

"Yes;  I've  met  them  several  times,"  answered 
Mrs.  Bannard  with  what  seemed  some  delicate 
reservation.  "They're  very  nice,  oh,  very  nice 
indeed!  as  every  one  says;  but  we  find  them  a 
little  difficult  to  know.  I  think  they  are  used 
to  a  very  formal  way  of  living,  and  of  course 
here  in  this  place  -  Mrs.  Bannard  spread 

out  her  hands  lightly.  "Is  Mr.  Brentwood 
at  the  golf  tournament?  My  husband  is  com- 
ing out  for  it." 

"Yes,    father    went    up    there    this    morn- 

[56] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


ing/'     said    Winifred,     rising    with    a    flush. 

"  Mother " 

The  state  guests  were  entering  the  room. 

Mrs.  Iverson  was  a  slender,  fragile  woman 
with  a  long  throat,  a  small,  narrow  face  and 
very  light  hair  and  eyes;  her  colourlessness  was 
accentuated  by  a  pale  gray  gown.  She  had  an 
air  at  once  of  extreme  unobtrusiveness  and 
great  elegance.  Her  expression  seemed  habitu- 
ally anxious;  when  she  spoke,  a  couple  of  vertical 
lines  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead  became 
contracted.  Her  sister,  Miss  Loomis,  who 
lived  with  her,  was  heavy-chinned  and  dark- 
eyebrowed,  her  stout  figure  straightly  busked 
and  stayed  into  the  mould  that  fashion  required; 
she  had  a  little  the  air  of  being  more  the  rose 
than  the  rose  itself.  The  apparently  modest 
gowns  of  both  women  were,  to  the  practised  eye, 
of  Parisian  manufacture.  A  chilled  atmosphere 
seemed  to  enter  with  them. 

"I  hope  we're  not  late,"  said  Mrs.  Iverson, 
after  the  first  greetings,  glancing  swiftly  about 
her,  while  the  nervous  vertical  lines  appeared 
in  her  forehead. 

"No,  indeed!"  responded  Mrs.  Brentwood 
warmly. 

"My  husband  dislikes  so  much  to  have  us 
late  anywhere.  He  is  home  to-day  with  a 
headache;  he  has  been  quite  an  invalid  lately." 

[57] 


Refractory  Husbands 


"Yes,  he  has  been  quite  an  invalid/7  cor- 
roborated Miss  Loomis,  with  the  air  of  con- 
fiding a  matter  of  importance. 

"I  am  so  sorry/'  said  Mrs.  Brentwood. 

"I  often  find  it  very  difficult  to  leave  him/' 
continued  Mrs.  Iverson. 

"Yes,  indeed,  my  sister  finds  it  difficult  to 
leave  him/'  said  Miss  Loomis;  "he  depends 
so  much  on  her.  I  often  offer  to  relieve  her 
by  reading  aloud  to  him,  but  she  says  he  prefers 
her  voice." 

"Yes,  he  prefers  my  voice,"  said  Mrs.  Iverson, 
with  eyes  that  seemed  to  grow  luminous  at  the 
thought.  Mr.  Iverson  was  evidently  a  power 
to  be  reckoned  on. 

She  turned  the  conversation  away  from  the 
subject,  however,  as  she  smiled  over  at  Winifred 
and  Audrey  though  it  was  evident  that  it 
still  occupied  her  thoughts.  "I  have  never 
met  your  daughters  before,  Mrs.  Brentwood." 

"No;  we  went  to  Europe  last  spring,  soon 
after  you  came  here,"  said  Mrs.  Brentwood. 
She  flushed  as  she  always  did  at  the  recollection 
of  that  miraculous  trip,  as  she  went  on  im- 
pulsively: "We  had  the  time  of  our  lives! 
We  were  gone  two  whole  months,  not  counting 
the  voyage.  We  had  none  of  us,  not  even  Mr. 
Brentwood,  ever  been  over  before.  Absolutely, 
we  went  around  thrilling!  But  luncheon  is 
ready.  Will  you  come  into  the  next  room, 

[58] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


across  the  hall?"  She  led  the  way,  still  talking 
as  the  party  took  their  places,  with  the  iced 
fruit  in  the  tall  amber  glasses  already  in  place. 

"You  have  been  over,  I  suppose,  Mrs. 
Iverson?" 

"Yes;  my  sister  and  I  were  educated  abroad, 
and  I  have  been  across  with  Mr.  Iverson  every 
summer  for  the  past  fifteen  years,  except  this 
year,"  said  Mrs.  Iverson  gently.  Her  brows 
knitted  again.  "But  there  is  such  a  sameness 
about  it.  I  don't  think  it  is  much  of  a  rest 
to  him;  my  husband  dislikes  strangers.  Of 
course  you  had  your  daughters  with  you. 
It  must  have  been  very  pleasant,"  she  went 
on,  with  a  smile  at  the  younger  part  of  the  com- 
munity. 

"Yes,  it  must  have  been  very  pleasant,"  coin- 
cided Miss  Loomis,  with  her  bright  air  of 
saying  something  original. 

"Oh,  mother  never  could  have  got  along 
without  us,"  said  Winifred,  with  a  glance  over 
at  the  tall  fruit-glasses  before  the  two  guests. 
Lucia  Bannard  and  the  family  were  emptying 
theirs  with  evident  enjoyment,  but  the  others 
seemed  to  be  only  dallying  lightly  with  theirs. 

"I  used  to  wish  that  I  had  daughters,  but 
it  is  perhaps  just  as  well  that  I  have  my  boys 
instead,"  pursued  Mrs.  Iverson,  "Girls  take 
up  so  much  of  one's  attention;  they  have  to  be 

[59] 


Refractory  Husbands 


looked  after,  of  course,  and  with  Mr.  Iverson 
in  his  present  state  of  health  it  would  have  made 
things  very  difficult."  The  strained  expression 
deepened.  "With  boys  it  is  very  different: 
they  have  their  own  lives." 

"Your  youngest  is  at  Groton?"  hazarded 
Mrs.  Bannard. 

"Yes,  at  Groton.  My  eldest  son,  Leslie, 
is  an  electrical  engineer  out  West.  When  he 
comes  home,  I  try  to  make  things  as  gay  for 
him  as  possible.  Mr.  Iverson  thinks  a  home 
should  be  made  attractive  for  a  young  man, 
but  it  is  sometimes  difficult.  Of  course  Mr. 
Iverson  mostly  keeps  in  his  own  apartments 
at  such  times,  and  I  always  have  a  trained  nurse 
on  hand  in  case  he  should  need  some  little 
attention  that  I  cannot  give  him  at  the  moment; 
but  he  seems  to  think  no  one  can  take  my  place." 

"No  one  can  take  her  place!"  volunteered 
Miss  Loomis  effectively. 

"Audrey  and  I  met  your  son  a  couple  of 
weeks  ago,  when  we  were  in  Denver,"  said 
Winifred,  a  little  pink  colour  coming  into  her 
cheeks. 

"Indeed!"  said  the  mother.  She  regarded 
Winifred  evidently  without  seeing  her.  A 
little  haze  grew  over  her  eyes.  "I  should 
like  to  travel  in  the  West  so  much,  but  Mr. 
Iverson  does  not  care  for  travelling." 

The  conversation  turned  on  California,  which 

[60] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


Lucia  Bannard  had  lately  visited,  and  wandered 
still  further  afield;  but  the  talking  got 
laboured  when  it  left  Mr.  Iverson.  There 
seemed  no  other  point  of  real  contact  with  the 
star  guests.  The  sense  of  chill  began  to  grow 
deeper.  They  dallied  with  their  oysters  as 
they  had  with  their  fruit,  eating  little,  and  that 
with  a  sort  of  impersonal  detachment  about 
them.  They  had  come  out  to  perform  a  social 
duty,  and  they  were  performing  it;  but  in 
spite  of  politeness  it  was  evidently  a  nervous 
strain.  They  were  oddly  like  recluses  free 
from  some  hermitage  for  a  few  hours,  politely 
striving  to  enjoy  an  unnatural  liberty,  with  the 
atmosphere  of  the  secluded  life  still  around 
them.  Winifred,  in  her  young,  clear-eyed  im- 
pressionableness,  got  an  unshaped  yet  not  the 
less  vivid  sensation  of  some  large,  tormented 
personality  behind  the  two  women  who  absorbed 
all  their  individuality  and  yet  wreaked  itself 
unhappily  on  them,  because  all  they  gave  was 
insufficient  for  the  need. 

Mrs.  Brentwood  was  waiting  in  hopes  of 
success  in  the  next  course,  the  chicken  bouillon 
with  whipped  cream,  somewhat  long  in  making 
its  appearance,  when,  after  a  sound  of  wheels 
outside,  the  noise  of  manly  footsteps  was  heard 
suddenly  in  the  hall,  and  Mr.  Brentwood's  large, 
handsome,  grizzled  head  was  thrust  between  the 
dining-room  portieres. 

[61] 


Refractory  Husbands 


"I  thought  I'd  come  home  to  luncheon. 

That  infernal  ligament  of  mine Hello! 

I  didn't  know  you  were  having  company," 
he  announced  genially. 

"I  told  you  myself  last  night,  Theodore," 
said  Mrs.  Brentwood,  flushing  with  an  exaspera- 
tion such  as  one  feels  with  a  beloved  child. 
She  loved  her  husband  whenever  her  eyes 
rested  on  him,  yet  she  could  have  shaken  him 
for  coming  in  just  now  and  disarranging  every- 
thing. 

"Come  in,  dear!  Mrs.  Iverson,  Miss  Loomis, 
my  husband." 

"Very  glad  indeed  to  welcome  you  here," 
said  Mr.  Brentwood  heartily,  shaking  hands. 
"I  haven't  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mr. 
Iverson,  but  I  hope  to  soon.  Lucia,  it's  always 
good  to  see  you!" 

He  was  a  man  who  always  kissed  his  wife  and 
daughters  affectionately  after  even  half  an 
hour's  absence.  He  proceeded  to  do  it  now, 
holding  Winifred's  hand  tenderly  in  his  as  he 
went  on  speaking: 

"Now  don't  let  me  upset  the  party;  if  there 
isn't  any  room  for  me,  you  can  just  send  me  a 
bite  upstairs." 

"You  know  you  only  say  that  for  effect," 
said  Winifred,  saucily.  She  appealed  to  the 
tableful,  her  dark  eyes,  her  scarlet  cheeks  and 
lips  framed  in  the  circle  of  his  arm.  "He's 

[62] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


the  most  pampered  man!  He'd  never  get 
over  it  if  he  thought  we'd  let  him  go  off  by  him- 
self and  have  our  good  time  without  him  —  would 
you,  daddy  dear?"  She  pulled  his  cheek 
down  to  hers  for  a  moment  with  defiant  pride. 

"It  was  very,  very  bad  of  you  to  come  home 
now,  and  you'll  crowd  us  dreadfully,  but  as 

you're  here "  she  was  busy,  as  she  spoke, 

helping  the  maid  to  lay  another  place.  Every- 
body was  moving  up  inconveniently  close, 
with  a  confusion  of  doilies  and  glasses  and 
knives  and  forks,  and  deprecatingly  polite 
murmurs  from  the  guests.  The  seventh  chair 
could  barely  be  edged  in;  Mr.  Brentwood's 
large  figure  in  his  gray  suit  seemed  to  dominate 
everything  as  he  beamed  with  courteous  kind- 
liness on  the  surrounding  womankind,  with 
apparent  obliviousness  of  an  uneasy,  startled 
air  that  seemed  to  pervade  Mrs.  Iverson  and 
her  sister. 

"I'd  have  been  here  before,  Matilda,"  he 
apologized  to  his  wife,  "but  I  went  out  of 
iny  way  to  give  that  little  sewing  woman  of 
yours  a  lift;  I  met  her  trudging  down  the  road." 
Mr.  Brentwood  was  always  giving  a  "lift" 
of  some  kind  to  oppressed  femininity.  "But 
I've  come  in  time  for  the  broth,  I  see."  He  took 
a  spoonful  of  his,  and  smiled  jovially  across  the 
table.  "That  disposes  of  formality  at  once. 
People"  —  the  eyes  of  Winifred,  Audrey,  and 

[63] 


Refractory  Husbands 


their  mother  commingled  in  one  agonized  glance 
—  "people,  Mrs.  Iverson,  come  for  miles  around 
to  hear  us  drink  soup." 

Mrs.  Iverson  looked  more  startled;  she  seemed 
indeed  to  shrink  a  little,  but  she  only  said, 
"Indeed!"  with  an  effort  at  response. 

"Yes,  it  reminds  me  of  that  precept  we  were 
taught  at  school,  'Eat  slowly  and  distinctly!' 
Ha!  I  believe  I  have  made  a  slight  mistake: 
it  was,  as  you  were  going  to  remind  me,  Audrey, 
'Read  slowly  and  distinctly/  but  the  principle's 
the  same.  Matilda,  Miss  Loomis  would  like 
to  borrow  some  bread." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  murmured  that  lady  as  Ellen 
hastily  passed  the  article. 

"Well,  I  will  then,"  said  Mr.  Brentwood, 
helping  himself.  "I  never  can  see  why  my  wife 
won't  have  the  bread  left  on  the  table,  as  usual, 
when  we  have  company.  At  all  the  best 
restaurants,  both  here  and  abroad,  they  leave 
the  bread  on  the  table  where  you  can  help 
yourself.  Isn't  that  true,  Mrs.  Iverson?" 

"I  believe  it  is  the  custom  abroad,"  said 
Mrs.  Iverson,  turning  a  delicate  pink  in  an 
effort  to  respond.  "But  when  we  travel,  Mr. 
Iverson  prefers  to  have  our  meals  served  in  a 
private  room;  his  health  demands  quiet." 

"Is  that  so,"  said  Mr.  Brentwood,  with 
genuine  interest.  "Poor  fellow,  I'm  sorry 
for  him.  I  know  what  it  is  when  this  infernal 

[64] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


ligament  of  mine  troubles  me.  But  speaking 
of  the  food  abroad"  —  he  leaned  forward  deep 
in  his  subject,  "I  don't  think  it's  what  it's 
cracked  up  to  be.  We  struck  the  plum  season 
in  England;  nothing  but  stewed  plums  or 
plum  tart  every  blessed  day  for  a  'sweet'  as 
they  call  it.  A  sweet  indeed!  At  luncheon 
or  dinner  at  the  house  where  we  were  stopping, 
or  when  we  were  invited  out,  plums,  I  give 
you  my  word,  just  the  same!  I  became"  — 
the  twinkle  in  Mr.  Brentwood's  eye  heralded 
to  the  family  the  approach  of  a  much-used 
pun  —  "I  nearly  became  plumb  crazy." 

A  sickly  smile  around  the  board  put  its  hall- 
mark on  the  joke,  and  he  went  on  with  another: 

"And  the  eternal  string-beans!  I  used  to 
say,  in  the  words  of  the  poet,  'I  have  bean  here 
before.'  Ha,  ha!"  He  paused  for  appreciation 
before  going  on.  "But  I'd  like  to  go  over 
again.  Ever  heard  the  story  of  the  man  who 
bought  a  coat  that  was  too  short  for  him?" 

"A  coat  that  was  too  short  for  him?"  re- 
peated Mrs.  Iverson  painstakingly.  "I  really 
do  not  know." 

"Father,  you  chatter  so  nobody  gets  a  chance 
to  say  a  word,"  protested  Winifred.  "You're 
taking  an  undue  advantage  of  being  the  only 
man." 

"Oh,  pray  tell  the  story!"  murmured  Mrs. 
Iverson  nervously.  "We  are  so  interested." 

[65] 


Refractory  Husbands 


"We  are  so  interested/'  stated  Miss  Loomis 
officially. 

"You  see,  my  dear,  Mrs.  Iverson  wants  to 
hear  it.  Ellen,  if  you  can  spare  me  another 
glass  of  water!  Well,  he  bought  a  coat,  and 
the  Irishman  told  him  it  was  too  short  for 
him.  'Oh,'  said  poor  Jim,  'but  it'll  be  long 
enough  before  I  get  another!'  And  the  Irish- 
man thought  that  was  so  funny  that  he  went 
off  —  Audrey,  my  dear  child,  don't  fidget  so, 
you  can't  be  well  —  slapping  himself  and  laugh- 
ing, and  he  says  to  the  next  person  he  met, 
'Me  friend  Jim  has  been  saying  the  funniest 
thing  yet.  Bedad,  when  I  told  him  his  new 
coat  was  too  short,  he  up  and  says:  "It'll 
be  a  long  time  before  I  get  another  one !' "  And 
he  couldn't  understand  why  nobody  laughed 
with  him.  Well,  it'll  be  a  long  time,  I'm 
afraid,  before  I'll  get  another  trip  abroad." 
He  stopped  short.  He  glared  darkly  with 
sudden  suspicion  —  his  head  reared  back  at 
a  silver  dish  on  a  tray  which  Ellen  was  pre- 
senting at  his  left  side.  "What  under  the 
sun  is  this,  Matilda?" 

"Browned  potatoes,  dear,"  replied  Mrs. 
Brentwood  in  a  tone  of  dangerous  calm. 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Brentwood,  happily  relieved. 
"What  are  you  looking  at  me  that  way  for, 
Matilda?  What  have  I  done  now?"  He 
[66] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


helped  himself  largely,  and  then  went  on  with 
a  ruminative  confidence  to  Mrs.  Iverson: 
"I  like  potatoes  in  any  way  but  cold."  He 
shook  his  head  retrospectively.  "I  never  have 
a-ny  use  for  potato  salad;  cold  potatoes  always 
remind  me  of  cold  feet."  An  icy  thrill  seemed 
to  run  visibly  around  the  table  to  the  agonized 
sense  of  the  family  before  Lucia  Bannard  began 
to  laugh  hysterically,  and  they  joined  in,  Mrs. 
Iverson  and  Miss  Loomis  palely  smiling. 

"But  you're  not  eating  anything,  Mrs.  Iver- 
son," said  Mrs.  Brentwood  a  moment  later  in 
real  concern;  "nor  your  sister  either!" 

Alas,  it  was  too  true!  They  had  seemed  to 
eat  without  appetite  before  Mr.  Brentwood's 
coming,  but  since  that  there  had  been  hardly 
a  pretence  at  it.  What  was  the  use  of  having 
the  "best  food  ever"  for  guests  who  didn't 
appreciate  it?  Never  had  such  a  thing  hap- 
pened before.  Nothing,  nothing,  could  have 
turned  out  less  as  it  had  been  planned  for! 
"  Why  had  they  tried  it  at  all?  "  Winifred  moaned 
to  herself. 

After  that  last  awful  remark  the  conversation 
was  left  to  Mr.  Brentwood  without  any  effort 
to  draw  it  away.  Mingled  with  a  desire  to 
shake  this  parent  who  was  behaving  like  a 
naughty  boy,  was  a  feeling  of  resentment  against 
these  impossible  Iversons  for  not  being  able 
to  see  how  fine  he  really  was;  there  could  be  no 

[67] 


Refractory  Husbands 


further  pretence  of  intimacy  with  Leslie  Iver- 
son's  stupid,  disapproving  family.  Something 
in  those  brown  eyes  of  his  seemed  to  speak, 
as  it  had  on  that  last  meeting,  straight  to  young 
Winifred's  soul,  and  she  said  now,  in  her  heart: 
"Yes,  I  saw  what  you  did,  and  I  say  good-bye 
to  that  something  that  drew  us  together. 
There  will  never  be  any  opportunity  for  it  to 
be  more  than  a  memory  to  both  of  us." 

The  guests  seemed  to  grow  more  and  more 
repressed,  yet  nervously  almost  furtive  in 
their  glances  at  each  other  behind  the  polite 
veil  of  punctilious  attention  which  they  gave 
their  host.  Their  deference  encouraged  him 
to  fresh  efforts;  he  soared  in  his  untrammelled 
invention. 

Later,  when  he  had  Mrs.  Iverson  and  Miss 
Loomis  ensconced  on  the  piazza,  and  after  hav- 
ing brought  them  each  the  most  beautiful  late 
rose  he  could  find,  and  the  biggest  Bartlett 
pears  off  his  own  tree,  he  arranged  their  cushions 
for  them  —  although  they  were  in  nervous  haste 
for  their  motor  to  come- — and  got  the  steamer  rug 
to  put  around  Mrs.  Iverson  with  dexterous  care, 
and  that  kind  smile  of  his  that  was  so  heart- 
warming, in  spite  of  her  agitated  protests, 
because  he  saw  she  looked  chilly.  After  that  he 
sat  on  the  railing  one  leg  over  the  other,  and 
Winifred  heard  the  fateful  words: 

"You  know  when  I  was  a  boy  we  never  took 
[68] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


baths "    He  was  beginning  the  Bath-Tub 

Story!    She  and  her  mother  clasped  at  each 
other's  hands  secretly  with  an  unheard  moan. 

If  he  came  to  the  Tooth-Brush  Story He 

was  coming  to  it. 

The  girl  began  to  feel  a  fury  at  her  visitors 
for  being  there  at  all.  She  never  wanted  to 
see  Leslie  Iverson  again.  She  went  up  to  her 
father  when  the  visitors  rose  at  last  to  go,  and 
said  her  good-byes  to  them  with  her  arm  around 
him;  and  as  the  motor  drove  off  he  stooped  and 
kissed  his  child  as  she  clung  to  him.  Though 
the  Iversons  had  been  so  long  in  going,  the 
swiftness  of  their  departure  at  the  last  precluded 
all  but  the  most  hurried  and  perfunctory  adieus; 
there  was  nothing  said  of  any  future  meeting. 

Contrary  to  their  wont,  the  Brentwood 
family  did  not  talk  over  the  luncheon  among 
themselves  afterward.  The  best  centrepiece 
and  the  doilies  were  put  away,  the  fancy  silver 
locked  up  again,  things  restored  to  their  rightful 
places,  but  with  no  reference  to  the  entertain- 
ment or  what  had  happened  at  it.  They  had 
tried  whole-heartedly  to  please,  and  they  hadn't 
pleased;  and  it  came  to  the  place  now  when  they 
didn't  care  whether  the  guests  had  been  pleased 
or  not.  The  Iversons  had  dropped  out  of 
their  scheme  of  things. 

Yet,  unexpectedly  enough,  after  all,  two  days 

[69] 


Refractory  Husbands 


afterward  they  were  surprised  by  a  call  from 
Mrs.  Iverson.  They  were  sitting  on  the  piazza, 
Mrs.  Brentwood  sewing  and  the  girls  just 
back  from  tennis,  when  the  big  motor-car 
drove  up  and  Mrs.  Iverson  stepped  out  alone. 
There  was  an  air  of  animation  about  her, 
both  in  movement  and  expression,  that  was  in 
striking  contrast  to  her  repressed  manner 
before.  She  came  up  the  steps  with  her  hand 
already  stretched  out  to  clasp  Mrs.  Brentwood's, 
the  anxious  lines  on  her  forehead  seemed  to  have 
been  smoothed  away.  There  was  a  slight 
flush  on  her  hitherto  pale  cheeks;  her  gentle 
eyes  shone;  there  was  a  perceptible  glow  about 
her  that  seemed  to  come  from  some  inner 
change. 

"  Please  don't  disturb  yourselves.  I'll  sit 
down  here  beside  you,  if  you'll  let  me,"  she 
said  taking  her  seat  by  Winifred  on  the  willow 
settee.  "I  can  stay  only  for  a  moment,  but 
I  felt  that  I  couldn't  wait  any  longer  before 
seeing  you  all.  My  sister  is  reading  to  Mr. 
Iverson.  As  he  always  says  her  voice  is  not 
mine,  but  he  really  wished  me  to  come." 

"  Indeed,  we  appreciate  it,"  responded  Mrs. 
Brentwood,  wondering  somewhat. 

The  other  put  up  a  gloved  hand  of  pro- 
test. "Oh,  no,  no,  it  is  we  who  appreciate 
your  kindness  so  much!  I  couldn't  rest  until 
I  had  told  you  what  a  delightful  time  we 

[70] 


Father's  Little  Joke 


had  at  your  luncheon  the  other  day.  It  is 
so  long  since  we  have  been  in  a  real  home  — 
with  a  family!  Perhaps  you  don't  realize 
what  it  is  to  see  daughters  with  their  father. 
And  Mr.  Brentwood!  he  was  so  brilliant,  and  so 

extraordinarily  entertaining,  and  so  kind " 

Mrs.  Iverson's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "My 
sister  and  I  were  spellbound:  we  couldn't  eat, 
couldn't  say  a  thing;  we  felt  so  stupid,  and  we 
were  simply  spellbound!  Mr.  Brentwood  re- 
minded us  so  wonderfully  of  our  own  dear 
father,  who  died  before  I  was  married,  especially 
when  he  told  the  story  about  the  coat;  it 
really  quite  affected  Amelia  and  myself." 

Mrs.  Iverson  paused  for  an  instant.  "And 
all  his  little  attentions  to  us  —  he  was  so  kind! 
But  the  thing  that  my  sister  and  I  felt  most  of 
all  was  how  much  Mr.  Iverson  would  enjoy 
him.  We  have  done  nothing  since  but  try  and 
repeat  Mr.  Brentwood's  clever  sayings  and 
anecdotes  to  my  husband,  and  he  is  all  impatience 
to  meet  Mr.  Brentwood.  He  would  have  driven 
over  with  me  to-day  if  he  had  been  able,  so 
I  have  come  now  to  beg  you  to  excuse  the 
informality  and  be  so  very  good,  if  you  will, 
to  dine  with  us,  all  of  you,  to-morrow  evening. 
Mr.  Iverson  has  so  few  pleasures,  and  he  is 
anxious  to  meet  you  and  Mr.  Brentwood  at 
once." 

"My  dear,  we'll  be  delighted,"   said  Mrs. 

[71] 


Refractory  Husbands 


Brentwood  warmly,  but  somehow  it  was  Win- 
ifred's hand  that  the  visitor  was  holding  as 
she  went  on  to  say: 

"And  I  want  to  engage  you  and  your  sister 
now  —  it's  a  little  far  ahead,  but  I  cannot  rest 
until  I  have  an  opportunity  of  returning  some 
of  the  pleasure  you  have  given  us  —  I  want 
to  engage  you  both  for  a  small  house-party 
that  I  expect  to  have  on  the  twentieth  for  my 
son,  when  he  comes  on  for  a  few  days;  for  I 
think  you  said  that  you  had  met  him,  Miss 
Brentwood?" 

"Yes,  I  have  met  him,"  said  Winifred, 
with  shining  eyes,  and  knew  not  what  strange 
telepathy  made  the  hitherto  impersonal,  re- 
pressed Mrs.  Iverson  draw  Winifred's  face  to 
hers  and  kiss  her. 

If  father  had  succeeded  in  having  his  little 
joke,  this  time  it  was  on  them! 


[72] 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 

rRE  you  going  to  the  Crandalls'  to-night 
to  meeti  that  girl  they  have  visiting 
them?" 

Mrs.  Chandor,  a  pretty,  fair  woman,  paused 
once  more  before  going  out  of  Atkinson's  to 
ask  the  question  of  Mrs.  Paxton. 

Atkinson's  was  the  leading  grocery,  a  most 
attractive  spot  with  its  gleaming  glass  jars  of 
fruit  and  vegetables  and  bright  tins  of  foreign 
delicacies  piled  up  everywhere.  On  clear  morn- 
ings you  met  almost  as  many  people  you  knew 
passing  in  and  out  as  if  it  were  the  Woman's 
Club.  To-day,  however,  it  was  raining  hard; 
in  lieu  of  the  usual  motors  and  carriages  out- 
side there  was  only  the  Iversons'  limousine 
with  its  swarthy  foreign  chauffeur  speeding 
past,  and  so  few  people  out  with  dripping 
mackintoshes  and  umbrellas  that  the  fact  gave 
an  additional  intimacy  to  any  meeting.  Mrs. 
Chandor  and  her  friend,  Mrs.  Paxton,  had 
been  talking  already  fifteen  minutes  by  the 
clock  on  the  opposite  wall. 

"Why,  I  hardly  think  we'll  be  there  — that 

[75] 


Refractory  Husbands 


is,  I  told  Mrs.  Crandall  when  she  called  me 
up  this  morning  that  if  Beverly  wasn't  too 
tired  to-night  when  he  came  home  we  might 
go  over  for  a  while.  But  if  it  rains " 

A  succession  of  expressions  seemed  to  flit 
suddenly  over  Mrs.  Paxton's  speaking  coun- 
tenance. She  was  a  short  woman,  with  a  gen- 
erous waist,  a  round  face  and  a  snub  nose;  but 
she  had  a  very  clear,  fair  skin,  lovely  roundish 
eyes  of  a  very  light  blue,  straying  curly  tendrils 
of  light  brown  hair,  and  a  dimple  at  one  side 
of  her  rather  large  mouth.  She  had  that 
matronly  if  still  youthful  appearance  that  gives 
the  effect  of  having  always  been  married;  but 
sometimes,  as  now,  when  she  smiled  with  puz- 
zled eyes  so  that  the  dimple  showed  by  her 
red  lips,  her  face,  under  the  straying  brown 
tendrils,  looked  unexpectedly  like  that  of  a  baby. 

"The  fact  is,  Mrs.  Chandor,  I  half  hope  it 
will  rain  —  it  gives  an  excuse.  It's  next  to 
impossible  to  drag  Beverly  out  in  the  evenings 
now  after  he  once  gets  home;  he  is  kept  down- 
town so  late  and  is  so  tired  —  and  to  the  Cran- 
datts'l" 

She  stopped  again  expressively.  The  Cran- 
dalls'  presented  no  gayety  even  to  her  willing 
mind.  Every  one  liked  them,  but  they  were 
people  who  in  their  own  narrow-doored,  high- 
ceilinged,  black-walnuted  home  didn't  shine  — 
neither  kind,  housekeeping  Nell,  nor  choir- 

[76] 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


singing  Will,  nor  old  Mrs.  Crandall,  with  her 
black  gloves  and  sloping  shoulders  and  in- 
sinuating manner,  seemed  to  know  what  to 
do  with  you  when  they  got  you  there. 

"I  know,"  assented  Mrs.  Chandor  feelingly. 
"I  should  think  it  would  be  a  little  dull  for 
Miss  Davis.  She's  just  come  from  some  army 
post  out  West  —  I  forget  the  name;  but  before 
that  she  lived  all  over  Europe.  Her  mother 
married  again  and  Miss  Davis  has  come  back 
to  America  to  make  her  own  way.  Her  father 
was  some  connection  of  Will  CrandalPs.  They 
say  she's  very  accomplished." 

"I'd  like  to  see  her,"  responded  Mrs.  Paxton 
vaguely.  "Well,  I  must  go!"  They  had  been 
talking  in  the  doorway  for  the  last  few  minutes, 
and  she  raised  her  umbrella  now  with  an  air 
of  finality.  "Good-bye." 

She  wondered  with  compunction  as  she  went 
home  whether  it  sounded  as  if  she  had  been 
complaining  of  Beverly.  Things  indeed  had 
come  to  that  pass  that  the  mere  mention  of 
any  invitation  either  raised  in  him  an  almost 
vituperative  storm  at  the  people  who  had 
asked  them,  so  that  his  wife  was  obliged  to 
insist  that  it  hadn't  been  meant  as  an  insult, 
or  else  caused  him  to  say  resignedly,  with  tired 
eyes:  "All  right,  all  right!  I'd  give  anything 
to  stay  home  quietly  this  evening  —  it's  been  the 
hardest  day  in  six  months;  but  if  you  say  so, 

[77] 


Refractory  Husbands 


Dorry,  of  course  I'll  go."  The  times  that  she 
had  to  insist  on  his  keeping  an  engagement  made 
her  more  miserable  than  him.  His  fastidi- 
ousness too  often  made  him  unduly  critical 
of  the  village  entertainments  —  he  was  wont 
to  thank  Heaven  when  they  were  over. 

Perhaps  it  was  no  wonder  that  after  Mr. 
Paxton's  business  day  in  town  —  as  dim  and 
far  off  to  Mrs.  Paxton's  understanding  as  to 
that  of  most  women,  as  if  he  had  taken  his 
daily  train  to  and  from  Mars  —  the  comfort 
of  his  home  should  appeal  ineffably  to  a  brain- 
and-body  worn-out  man. 

Dorothy  Paxton  had  no  artistic  sense,  like 
Lucia  Bannard,  but  she  had  an  abounding 
gentleness  and  reposefulness  like  the  fruit  from 
a  Horn  of  Plenty.  Her  soft  plumpness  seemed 
typical  of  a  generous  softness  of  nature;  she 
had  that  sixth  sense  which  consists  in  knowing 
how  to  make  a  man  comfortable. 

It  was  not  only  that  his  dinner  was  always 
appetizing  —  Mrs.  Paxton  never  indulging  in 
those  "off"  meals  in  which  there  is  nothing 
anybody  wants  to  eat  —  the  evening  lamp 
at  its  most  perfect  angle  by  the  sofa,  the  fire 
at  its  brightest,  the  cosiness  of  the  winter 
evening  nestlike  after  the  pretty  children  had 
come  in  to  bid  him  good  night  in  strainingly 
affectionate  little  arms  —  it  was  not  only  these 
material  charms  that  appealed,  but  the  mere 

[78] 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


presence  of  Mrs.  Paxton  in  a  house  gave  a 
sense  of  pervasive  warmth,  an  all-embracing 
loving-heartedness  in  which  the  spirit  basked. 
Her  absence  left  an  aching  void.  Mr.  Pax- 
ton's  hungry  "Where's  mamma?"  conveyed 
its  own  message  to  her  children's  sympathetic 
ears. 

Yet  sometimes  —  it  were  vain  to  deny  it!  — 
Mrs.  Paxton  felt  secretly  that  she  didn't 
get  quite  so  much  out  of  this  partnership  as 
she  should.  It  is  hard  to  quench  effectively 
the  inherent  sense  of  justice  even  in  the  heart 
of  the  most  loving  woman.  If  Beverly  were 
satisfied  it  was  perfunctorily  taken  that  she  must 
be.  If  what  she  did  for  him  failed  to  awaken 
him  to  an  equal  care  for  her  in  little  things, 
the  only  way  she  knew  to  meet  his  inadequacy 
was  to  take  thought  for  him  even  more  gener- 
ously. It  was  Mrs.  Paxton's  simple  creed  that 
the  more  you  did  for  any  one  the  more  they 
must  naturally  want  to  do  for  you.  Why, 
if  she  received  the  least  little  kindness  from 
a  friend  she  couldn't  rest  until  she  had  done 
something  kind  too;  it  wasn't  so  much  in  the 
nature  of  a  payment  as  an  equal  privilege. 
She  enjoyed  getting  out  in  the  evening,  and 
Beverly  knew  it;  it  was  a  change  —  a  soul- 
lift  in  the  unvarying  round  of  her  domes- 
tic days.  In  her  meditations  she  had  plans 
for  reforming  him  that  came  to  naught  — 

[79] 


Refractory  Husbands 


convincing  talks  that  never  materialized.  She 
had  had  even  those  wild  flights  of  fancy  that 
may  come  unsuspectedly  to  the  most  married, 
in  which  she  saw  herself,  after  the  way  of  the 
heroines  of  fiction,  coquettishly  charming  her 
husband's  renewed  and  loverlike  interest  to 
her  by  being  very  attractive  to  some  other 
man.  Mrs.  Paxton  was,  however,  no  fool; 
even  if  there  had  been  any  man  who  wanted 
to  captivate  or  to  be  captivated,  she  had 
herself  seen  that  in  real  life  the  spectacle  of 
a  flirting  wife  didn't  draw  a  husband's  interest 
to  her  pleasingly  —  it  only  irritated  him  and 
made  him  like  her  less.  There  seemed  to  be 
no  effectual  way.  Yet  when  one  can  foresee 
only  baffling  effects  from  all  one's  efforts, 
circumstances  may  unexpectedly  step  in  and 
give  a  twist  to  the  key  that  unlocks  the  gate 
to  a  different  road. 

As  the  day  wore  on  toward  night  and  the 
rain  came  pouring  down  more  and  more  blackly 
in  chill,  rushing  torrents,  she  was  thankful 
that  it  was,  after  all,  to  the  Crandalls'  that  her 
regrets  would  be  telephoned  when  her  husband 
reached  home,  rather  than  to  some  more 
attractive  place.  Nothing  could  have  sent 
Beverly  forth  again  on  such  a  night. 

She  was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  her 
simple  blue  house-gown  when  she  heard  him 
run  up  the  steps,  and  leaned  over  the  balus- 

[so] 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


trade  to  call  "I'm  up  here,  dear,"  before  he 
could  ask  little  Gertrude,  who  opened  the  door 
for  him,  where  mamma  was. 

"  You're  home  early  to-night,"  she  said 
happily,  lifting  up  her  face  to  be  kissed  after 
he  had  come  loping  upstairs  to  her. 

"Yes,"  assented  her  husband.  He  was  a 
somewhat  thickset  man  of  medium  size, 
with  a  long,  smooth-shaven  face,  rather  small 
eyes,  a  handsome  nose  and  mouth,  shining 
hair  and  very  small  ears  and  hands  and  feet. 
His  wife  was  very  proud  of  his  aristocratic 
appearance.  He  had  an  unusual  animation 
now  in  his  eyes  and  voice. 

"I  thought  I'd  get  home  in  time  to  dress 
before  dinner."  He  paused  in  evident  wonder 
at  his  wife's  astonished  glance.  "Why,  didn't 
you  get  the  invitation?  Miss  Marie  Davis  — 
I  went  in  with  her  and  Crandall  this  morning  — 
said  that  Mrs.  Crandall  was  going  to  call  you 
up  the  first  thing." 

"Miss  Davis!  Yes,  I  got  the  invitation, 
but  I'd  no  idea  that  you  would  go,"  responded 
his  wife  blankly.  "I  thought,  of  course,  on 
account  of  the  rain  and  everything  you  wouldn't 
want " 

She  stopped;  her  husband  was  sitting  down 
on  the  lounge,  already  drawing  off  his  shoes. 

"Oh!  The  rain  doesn't  amount  to  much," 
he  announced  absently.  "We'll  telephone  for 
[81] 


Refractory  Husbands 


Docherty's  hack  if  you  want  it."  His  eyes 
kindled  reminiscently.  "Have  you  met  Miss 
Davis?" 

"No." 

"Curious  history  she  must  have  had.  Her 
mother's  been  married  three  times,  or  maybe 
it's  four  —  a  regular  old  Henry  the  Eighth,  I 
call  it!  Crandall  says  that  poor  girl  has  been 
dragged  all  over  the  world.  Once  they  were  so 
poor  she  had  to  sing  in  the  streets  of  Budapest 
—  I  think  it  was  —  to  get  money  to  buy  medicine 
for  her  mother  when  she  had  the  pneumonia. 
Crandall  says  her  eyes  fill  with  tears  when  she 
speaks  of  it.  You  can  see  that  she  longs  to 
have  a  life  like  other  girls,  quiet  and  domestic. 
Her  stepfather,  the  count,  is  rolling  in  money, 
but  she  won't  live  with  them." 

"Why  not?" 

Mr.  Paxton  shook  his  head  and  pursed  his 
lips  significantly.  "Don't  ask  me!  If  you 
want  to  know,  I  think  she's  too  attractive. 
She  gives  you  to  understand  —  delicately, 
of  course  —  that  her  looks  have  always  been  a 
drawback  to  her.  She  hates  foreigners." 

"Well,  if  you're  going  to  shave  I  think  you'd 
better  not  stay  here  talking  any  more,"  said 
his  wife  sensibly.  She  went  to  the  wardrobe 
and  took  out,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
her  best,  brand-new  trained  evening  gown  of 
lacy  black,  trimmed  at  the  neck  with  cerise 

[82] 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


velvet,  which  was  very  becoming  to  her  fair 
skin  and  made  her  figure  almost  slim. 

The  thought  of  wearing  it  gave  a  pleasant 
sense  of  excitement.  She  would  dress  after 
dinner.  She  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs  just 
as  the  maid  was  opening  the  door  for  Donald 
Bannard,  who,  with  a  dripping  umbrella  left 
outside,  proffered  one  neatly  furled. 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Paxton.  I'm  bring- 
ing back  this  umbrella  we  borrowed  of  you. 
Lucia  thought  you  might  need  it  to  get  to  the 
CrandallsV 

There  was  a  peculiar  light  in  his  always 
merry  eyes.  "You're  going,  aren't  you?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Paxton,  "unless 
Beverly  backs  out  before  the  time  comes." 

"Oh,  Paxton  will  be  there!  Have  you  seen 
the  fair  Marie?" 

"No." 

"Well,  she's  a  winner,  believe  me!"  Mr. 
Bannard  shook  his  head  with  a  smile  of  delighted 
remembrance.  "That  girl  had  every  man 
around  her  on  the  station  platform  this  morning. 
You  should  have  seen  old  Brentwood!  I  told 
him  he  was  a  disgrace,  and  he  had  the  face  to 
say  that  I  was  jealous  of  him.  Well,  good 
evening;  I'll  see  you  later." 

"Thank  you  for  the  umbrella,"  said  Mrs.  Pax- 
ton  sedately.  She  felt  puzzled  and  dimly  aloof. 
The  girl  somehow  didn't  sound  attractive. 


Refractory  Husbands 


She  was  forced  to  alter  her  opinion,  however, 
when  she  reached  the  Crandalls'.  There  was  a 
different  air  about  the  house  at  once  notice- 
able; a  buzz  of  conversation  smote  the  ear  on 
entering,  an  unusual  excitement  was  evident, 
not  only  among  the  guests  but  in  the  bearing 
of  the  family.  Even  old  Mrs.  Crandall,  with 
her  neatly  banded  coal-black  hair,  her  black 
gloves  and  her  genteel  manner,  showed  it. 
The  cause  was  revealed  when  Nell  loudly 
announced:  " Marie,  I  want  you  to  meet  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Paxton  —  my  cousin,  Miss  Davis." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Paxton  and  I  are  old  friends  already," 
said  Miss  Davis  in  a  deep  voice,  slipping  lithely 
toward  them  from  a  group  of  men,  her  head 
thrown  back  and  both  hands  outstretched. 
It  seemed  a  wonder  that  she  could  move  at  all; 
her  white  satin  skirt  was  so  narrow  that  it 
almost  appeared,  in  a  back  view,  as  if  she  were 
sitting  down  when  she  was  really  standing  up. 
She  was  the  slimmest,  whitest  creature  Mrs. 
Paxton  had  ever  seen,  but  her  eyes  were  enormous 
and  dark,  with  violet  circles  below,  and  black 
eyebrows  above;  her  mouth  was  very  red,  and 
her  hair,  of  which  she  seemed  to  have  pounds, 
was  of  a  metallic  golden  colour;  waved  on  top,  it 
stuck  out  in  an  immense  banded  knob  a  quarter 
of  a  yard  from  the  back  of  her  head.  If  her 
appearance  was  foreign,  her  voice  and  accent 
were  not  —  she  had  evidently  kept  her  Western 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


burr  through  all  vicissitudes.  She  went  on  now 
after  her  greeting  to  Mrs.  Paxton: 

"Your  husband  and  I  went  into  town  to- 
gether this  morning.  He  is  such  a  dear  fel- 
low, isn't  he?" 

"Now,  now,  now!"  protested  Mr.  Paxton 
with  a  laugh,  "Miss  Marie,  you  mustn't  say 
that  before  me!" 

"And  why  not?"  asked  Miss  Davis.  She 
turned  her  cheek  toward  him,  with  her  head 
still  thrown  back  and  her  eyes  looking  from 
under  her  drooped  eyelids.  "I  know  my 
friends  often  say  to  me:  'Marie  Davis'  —  she 
pronounced  it  Murree  —  'you  are  too  frank.' 
But  I  believe  in  being  frank  with  men  —  that 
is,  of  course,  if  they're  the  right  kind.  Then 
you  know  just  where  you  are.  Don't  you 
think  so,  Mr.  Bannard?"  She  turned  to 
that  gentleman  and  Mrs.  Paxton  passed  on, 
although  the  latter  noticed,  after  a  moment, 
that  her  husband  was  not  with  her. 

There  were  no  men  among  the  women  sitting 
or  standing  around  the  room,  with  the  exception 
of  young  Leslie  Iverson,  whose  engagement  to 
Winifred  Brentwood  had  just  been  announced, 
and  who  had  eyes  for  nobody  but  her.  Will 
Crandall  stood  on  one  side  of  the  door  keeping 
watch  on  the  group  around  Miss  Davis.  Mrs. 
Paxton  had  been  fascinated  by  the  sight  of  her 
own  figure,  almost  unbelievably  slender  in 


Refractory  Husbands 


the  modish  black  and  cerise  gown,  but  by  the 
side  of  the  Crandalls'  visitor  she  felt  dull  and 
solid.  If  it  was  any  satisfaction,  all  the  other 
women,  even  Lucia  Bannard,  looked  the  same. 
They  seemed  merely  as  background  for  the 
dazzling,  metallic  brilliancy  of  the  fair  "Murree." 

uWhat  do  you  think  of  her?"  murmured 
young  Mrs.  Wilmer  in  a  tone  that  left  an  open- 
ing for  confidences. 

"She  seems  very  attractive,"  said  Mrs. 
Paxton. 

"Yes,  doesn't  she?"  agreed  Mrs.  Wilmer. 
"Old  Mrs.  Crandall  was  telling  us  how  ac- 
complished she  is.  She  played  the  banjo 
before  the  king  of  —  I've  forgotten  the  name 
of  the  country,  but  he's  a  real  king  just  the 
same  —  and  he  was  so  enraptured  that  he 
gave  her  that  green  bracelet  she's  wearing; 
but  old  Mrs.  Crandall  says  that  she  is  still 
a  simple  American  girl." 

"Old  Mrs.  Crandall  was  very  intimate  with 
the  grandmother,"  chimed  in  the  matronly 
Mrs.  Brentwood.  "Mr.  Brentwood  met  Miss 
Davis  this  morning;  he's  always  so  sorry  for  a 
girl  who  has  to  make  her  own  way —  he  feels 
that  he  has  daughters  himself,  you  know." 

"Oh,   Mrs.    Paxton!"     called    Miss    Davis' 
deep  voice,  as  she  approached  with  a  following 
of   black-coated   figures.     "I   want    to   ask   if 
your  husband  is  truthful." 
[86] 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


" Probably  not,"  said  Mrs.  Paxton  with  a 
gleam  in  her  baby-blue  eyes. 

"There,  what  did  I  tell  you,  you  bad  man!" 
cried  Miss  Davis,  gazing  at  him  provocatively. 
"But  I  forgive  you  for  trying  to  impose  on  me. 
Captain  Spears,  out  at  the  fort,  used  to  say: 
'Murree,  anybody  can  get  around  you;  you're 
too  warm-hearted.'  But  I'm  glad  I  am;  I 
wouldn't  be  as  cold  as  you  are  for  anything. 
Yes,  when  a  man  has  as  small  feet  and  hands 
as  you  have,  Mr.  Paxton,  you  may  be  sure  he 
has  a  Cold  heart." 

"Now,  now,  now!"  expostulated  Mr.  Paxton, 
laughing,  but,  as  his  wife  felt  wonderingly, 
fatuously  pleased  instead  of  repelled.  "Cold, 
indeed!  Put  your  little  hand  by  the  side  of 
mine.  There  —  mine  would  make  four  of 
yours;  wouldn't  it,  Wilmer?" 

"These  big  strong  men!"  said  Miss  Davis 
admiringly  to  the  world  at  large.  "I'm  afraid 
of  you!  Although  after  the  way  you  saved 
my  life  this  afternoon,  Mr.  Wilmer " 

"Saved  your  life?"  interrupted  young  Mrs. 
Wilmer  unwarily.  "I  hadn't  heard  of  that!" 

"Oh,  shucks!  It  was  nothing,"  objected  Mr. 
Wilmer  hurriedly.  "That  black-faced  chauffeur 
of  the  Iversons'  lost  control  of  his  machine  for  a 
moment  just  as  Miss  Davis  was  crossing  the 
street,  that  was  all  that  happened." 

"All!     If    you   hadn't    put   your  beautiful 

[87] 


Refractory  Husbands 


strong  arm  around  me  I  would  have  slipped 
under  the  wheels,"  said  Miss  Davis,  shuddering 
coquettishly.  Her  white  face  and  arms,  her 
white  satin  gown,  and  her  metallic  hair  caught 
new  light  as  she  shuddered. 

"I'll  be  there  next  time  to  see  that  you  don't 
slip,"  affirmed  Mr.  Paxton  jovially.  "Wilmer 
takes  an  unfair  advantage." 

"Very  attractive  girl,  isn't  she?"  said  Nell 
Crandall  later  in  the  evening,  to  the  row  of 
women  sitting  somewhat  stiffly  on  the  walnut 
chairs  under  the  dim  oil  paintings.  There 
was  a  hint  of  growing  uneasiness  in  her  manner 
at  the  continued  bursts  of  loud  laughter  from 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  Miss  Davis 
had  effectively  kept  all  the  men.  Having 
just  finished  a  song  with  the  alluring  refrain 
of  "Kiss  —  Kiss  —  Kiss,"  she  was  now  re- 
arranging Mr.  Paxton's  necktie  for  him.  "So 
fresh  and  unspoiled  —  a  perfect  child!  in 
spite  of  the  career  she  has  had  in  courts 
and  everything.  She  said  to  me  just  this 
morning:  *  Cousin  Nell,  I  act  as  I  feel.  I 
cannot  help  being  natural.'  It  makes  her 

unusual,  of  course,  but "  Nell  paused  for 

a  moment  uncertainly  —  "very  attractive,  we 
think." 

"Oh,  very,"  assented  Mrs.  Brentwood,  while 
young  Mrs.  Wilmer  fanned  herself,  though 
it  was  not  warm. 

[88] 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


"I  shouldn't  call  her  a  child/'  she  asserted 
dryly  when  Nell  had  gone. 

But  afterward  the  male  members  of  the  party 
came  once  more  into  view,  ranging  themselves 
round  the  walls  as  Miss  Davis  appeared  in  a 
new  r61e.  Standing  under  the  chandelier  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  in  her  white  satin  gown, 
she  wriggled  from  side  to  side,  bent  forward  and 
back,  waved  her  arms,  clasped  them  over  her 
bosom,  rolling  her  large  eyes  the  while,  to  a 
laborious,  stumbling  accompaniment  played  by 
Nell.  Old  Mrs.  Crandall,  with  a  worried  ex- 
pression, going  from  guest  to  guest,  explained 
in  her  most  refined  tone  that  it  was  an  Eastern 
dance  that  dear  Marie  was  giving.  "Her 
grandmother/'  said  old  Mrs.  Crandall,  "was 
a  beautiful  dancer,  though  in  a  different  way. 
It  is  wonderful,  here  in  our  little  town,  to  feel 
the  customs  of  the  East  brought  so  near  to  us 
as  in  this  dance  of  dear  Marie's." 

"I  don't  call  it  a  dance;  I  call  it  a  squirm," 
said  young  Mrs.  Wilmer  bluntly  when  old  Mrs. 
Crandall  had  gone.  It  might  be  Eastern,  but 
it  was  also  at  times  embarrassing. 

When  the  dance  was  finished  Miss  Davis 
held  out  her  long  white  arms  toward  Mr. 
Paxton,  and  they  whirled  rapidly  together 
among  the  impeding  furniture  and  guests, 
her  head  with  its  metallic  hair  resting  on  his 
black-coated  shoulder.  Mr.  Paxton  was  a  good 

[89] 


Refractory  Husbands 


dancer,  though  it  was  long  since  his  wife  had 
sampled  his  perfections  in  that  line. 

It  had  come  to  that  pass  to  Dorothy  Pax- 
ton's  wondering  observance  that  however  the 
fair  Marie  might  be  surrounded  by  the  jesting 
crowd,  Beverly,  the  quiet  and  fastidious,  was 
always  the  nearest  to  her,  his  laugh  the  loudest, 
his  attentions  the  most  hilariously  persistent. 
Mrs.  Paxton  began  to  feel  an  odd  chill  little 
contempt  for  her  husband;  couldn't  he  see,  in 
spite  of  the  glamour  thrown  round  her,  how 
common  the  girl  was?  Her  eyes  wandered 
thoughtfully  to  the  corner  where  Leslie  Iverson 
had  no  eyes  for  any  one  but  Winifred  Brentwood. 
He  was  only  engaged.  She  had  a  dim  per- 
ception that  to  the  husbands  this  was  a  sort  of 
unreal,  intoxicating  Arabian  Night's  Enter- 
tainment in  the  suburban  monotony  of  married 
life. 

But  it  was  after  supper,  at  which  the  strongest 
refreshment  served  was  grape- juice,  and  during 
which  seven  men  had  shared  Miss  Davis' 
cake  with  her,  that  the  climax  came  to  this  par- 
ticular Arabian  Night.  Every  one  seemed  to 
be  standing  up,  grouped  in  the  narrow  door- 
ways, when  the  fair  Marie  started  to  go  up- 
stairs for  a  photograph  of  herself  in  Turkish 
costume  which  every  one  had  been  clamouring 
to  see.  She  stopped,  however,  on  the  lower 
step  to  say,  with  a  plaintive  droop : 

[90] 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


"These  dreadful  stairs!  They  spoiled  me 
so  at  the  fort,  I  never  walked  up  once  while 
I  was  at  Captain  Spears';  either  he  or  Lieu- 
tenant Pike  insisted  on  carrying  me.  But 
of  course  I  don't  expect  such  attentions  out 
of  the  army." 

"See  here,  are  we  going  to  lie  down  on  a 
dare  like  that?"  asked  Mr.  Wilmer,  laughing 
immoderately. 

"I  should  think  not,"  amended  Mr.  Brent- 
wood  gallantly.  "If  it  were  not  for  my  years 
I  should  certainly  offer  my  services." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  a  great  deal  heavier  than 
you  think,"  protested  Miss  Davis  with  an 
alluring  fall  of  her  long  lashes. 

"Heavy!  Do  you  hear  that,  Chandor?" 
asked  Donald  Bannard,  slapping  his  friend  on 
the  back.  "Just  wait  a  moment,  Miss  Marie. 
Chandor  will  run  up  and  down  with  you  in 
five  seconds." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  step  ahead  of  everybody 
else,"  said  Mr.  Chandor.  "I'll  give  you  a 
chance,  Donald." 

"No,  I'm  referee.  How  about  Paxton? 
He's  crazy  for  the  opportunity." 

"Yes,  how  about  Paxton?"  came  in  deep- 
voiced  chorus. 

"All  right,  that  suits  me,"  agreed  Mr.  Paxton 
with  the  air  of  a  hardy  rover.  "Time  me ! " 

There  was  a  general  cheer.    Mrs.   Paxton, 

[91] 


Refractory  Husbands 


looking  from  her  place  in  the  outer  circle,  saw 
Beverly,  her  husband,  snatch  up  the  willing 
captive  in  both  arms,  her  head  hanging  back- 
ward, her  eyes  closed  and  her  teeth  shining 
between  her  red  lips,  and  dash  up  and  down 
again,  while  Mr.  Wilmer  held  the  watch. 

"By  Jove!  You  are  heavier  than  you  look/' 
he  said  with  genuine  surprise,  as  he  set  her  on 
her  feet  again  and  a  derisive  shout  proclaimed 
that  he  had  failed.  Her  slipper  fell  off  and 
he  jammed  it  on  her  tiny  foot.  "That  isn't 
fair.  You  ought  to  let  me  have  another  show!" 

The  mirth  grew  uproarious.  Beverly  was 
laughing  incessantly,  as  was  every  one  else, 
yet  with  a  glittering  eye,  a  hint  of  eagerness 
under  his  laughter,  that  wasn't  perceptible  in 
the  other  men.  Old  Mrs.  Crandall,  with  a  still 
more  worried  expression  than  before,  was  cir- 
culating elegantly  round  with  anecdotes  of  the 
young  woman's  grandmother;  Nell  was  anx- 
iously repeating  to  unheeding  ears  how  much  of 
a  child  and  how  natural  Marie  was;  while 
Will  Crandall,  with  glowering  eyes,  seemed  to 
be  muttering  something  unpleasant  to  his  wife. 
There  were,  in  fact,  all  the  symptoms  of  un- 
easiness in  regard  to  an  uncontrollable  guest. 
No  one  knew  where  this  might  stop. 

Just  as  Mrs.  Paxton  came  suddenly  forward 
to  her  husband  she  caught  sight  of  herself  in 
a  mirror  opposite.  The  black  and  cerise  gown 

[92] 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


certainly  set  off  her  white  neck  and  arms  as 
she  moved  with  dignified  grace;  her  blue  eyes 
were  larger  and  more  luminous,  her  cheek 
deeply  rosed;  she  looked  unexpectedly  handsome, 
while  she  said  pleasantly,  yet  in  the  tone  no  man 
disregards: 

"I  think  we  had  better  be  carrying  ourselves 
off  now,  Beverly.  It  is  growing  late." 

"Oh,  well  —  if  you  say  so,"  returned  her 
husband  with  reluctance. 

"It's  too  bad  to  break  up  an  evening  like 
this,"  protested  Donald  Bannard. 

"Oh,  we'll  continue  it,"  said  Mr.  Brentwood 
with  hospitable  intent.  "We'll  have  a  series 
of  evenings  while  Miss  Davis  is  here,  one 
at  each  house.  I  know  you  won't  be  able  to 
keep  Paxton  away!" 

"Not  unless  I'm  put  in  irons,"  agreed  Beverly. 
He  openly  squeezed  Miss  Davis'  hand  at  parting, 
while  she  leaned  forward  very  close  to  his  face, 
her  enormous,  dark-circled  violet  eyes  full  of 
preposterous  extravagant  meaning  as  they 
|azed  into  his  while  his  laugh  answered  her. 
If  they  had  all  been  at  the  silly  age,  ignorantly 
untrammelled,  the  thing  might  have  had  an 
excuse. 

"You're  looking  very  well.  Did  you  have 
a  nice  time  to-night?"  the  husband  asked 
his  wife  vaguely  after  they  were  home.  He 
bent  forward  to  kiss  her,  also  vaguely,  as  if 

[93] 


Refractory  Husbands 


some  other  emotion  wrapped  him  round,  and 
he  saw  her  dimly  yet  agreeably  through  it. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered  indifferently,  bend- 
ing over  to  pick  up  a  glove  so  that  the  intended 
salute  was  lost. 

As  she  lay  on  her  bed  that  night,  her  mind 
luminously  clear,  she  felt  that  if  he  had  been 
fascinated  by  a  woman  who  was  really  beautiful 
and  charming,  some  one  of  his  own  kind,  she 
could  have  understood,  appreciated  —  nay,  even 
though  she  might  have  been  madly  jealous, 
have  yet  genuinely  sympathized  with  his  in- 
fatuation. But  to  make  an  exhibition  of  him- 
self over  a  girl  so  excruciatingly  in  bad  taste, 
beneath  all  her  tawdry,  artificial  attraction  — 
yes,  so  flagrantly  common  as  "Murree!"  gave 
Dorothy  not  even  any  thrill  of  jealousy;  it 
left  her  cold.  She  regarded  her  husband  from 
a  region  remote  and  unattached,  as  if  he  were 
somebody  she  didn't  know  but  rather  disliked: 
he  was  somebody  she  didn't  know  if  he  could 
be  attracted  by  a  girl  like  that!  To  be  sure, 
all  the  others  had  behaved  foolishly,  but  not 
like  Beverly  —  it  was  not  the  same. 

She  thought  of  him  curiously,  yet  with 
indifference.  The  superstructure  of  her  wedded 
life  seemed  to  have  crumbled;  for  the  first 
time  in  nine  years  she  felt  a  strange  proud 
freedom  of  not  being  married  to  him  at  all,  as 
if  the  children  were  only  her  children,  her  life 

[94] 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


her  own,  something  in  which  she  herself  no 
longer  had  any  need  to  count  on  him  or  hang 
upon  his  pleasure.  She  slept  calmly,  with 
existence  on  this  new  stationaiy  plane,  and 
entered  as  calmly,  after  the  first  inevitable 
jar  of  waking,  on  the  day. 

If  all  the  men  on  the  station  platform  the  next 
morning  had  a  slight  shamefacedness  about  them 
there  was  no  wife  to  see  its  cause —  even  Miss 
Davis,  contrary  to  expectations,  was  not  there. 

Neither,  as  turned  out  the  following  day, 
was  she  at  the  Crandalls'.  All  kinds  of  queer 
rumours  were  abroad,  whispered  by  excited 
women  as  they  grouped  magnetically  coming 
in  or  out  of  Atkinson's,  or  Bolt's  Emporium. 
Lucia  Bannard  herself  was  authority  for  Mrs. 
Iverson,  who  had  been  obliged  to  walk  into  the 
village  in  default  of  the  chauffeur  with  whom 
Miss  Davis  had  gone  off.  It  wasn't  a  real 
elopement;  they  had  been  married  secretly  a 
year  ago  and  separated  afterward.  It  was 
rumoured  that  there  had  been  a  disgraceful 
scene  at  the  Crandalls'  when  he  had  jeal- 
ously demanded  his  wife.  It  was  rumoured 
that  he  had  gone  to  kind  Mr.  Brentwood  for 
money  —  it  was  rumoured  that  he  was  a  Hun- 
garian count  —  it  was  rumoured  that  he  was  a 
Russian  nihilist.  All  that  Mrs.  Iverson  could 
say  was  that,  whatever  else  he  might  be  he 
certainly  wasn't  a  gentleman. 

[951 


Refractory  Husbands 


But  Mr.  Paxton  heard  no  word  on  the 
subject  from  his  wife.  When  he  came  home 
from  town  the  following  night,  furtive-eyed, 
but  loudly  cheerful,  to  ask  casually  if  she  knew 
about  that  affair  of  Miss  Davis  and  the  chauffeur, 
she  merely  said,  Yes,  she  did,  listened  to  his 
comments  politely  and  changed  the  subject. 
Later  in  the  evening  when  the  Bannards  and  the 
Chandors  happened  in,  with  the  livened  air 
and  mental  stimulus  that  a  near-scandal  brings 
to  a  suburban  community,  Mrs.  Paxton,  though 
hospitably  disposed  toward  the  conversation, 
kept  entirely  out  of  it.  No  word  in  deroga- 
tion of  the  pyrotechnical  Marie  escaped  her 
lips;  what  the  girl  had  or  hadn't  done  was  as 
indifferent  to  her  as  her  husband.  She  was 
conscious  that  he  was  secretly  watching  her; 
once  he  put  his  arm  around  her,  an  unusual 
manifestation  of  affection  in  public,  but  it 
brought  no  flush  to  her  cheek. 

As  the  days  wore  on,  even  to  the  hypnotized 
consciousness  of  a  husband  as  a  rule  impercep- 
tive  to  change,  there  was  something  oddly  differ- 
ent about  Beverly  Paxton's  wife.  She  was  as 
attentive  to  his  wants,  as  scrupulously  careful 
of  his  comfort  as  ever,  but  the  atmosphere 
had  changed  dully.  Something  ineffable  that 
warmed  and  cheered  and  restored  and  ten- 
derly covered  all  his  imperfections  no  longer 
emanated  from  her  presence.  He  was  left,  a 

[96] 


Marie  Twists  the  Key 


naked  soul,  to  wander  lost  and  alone  among  the 
elements. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  the  week  that  she 
heard  his  step  swinging  up  the  walk  with  an 
unusual  ring  in  it.  When  she  went  down  to 
greet  him  he  presented  her,  still  furtive-eyed, 
with  a  large  bunch  of  roses. 

"I  saw  them  in  the  Terminal  and  thought 
you  might  like  them,"  he  explained  carelessly. 

"  They  're  exquisite.  Thank  you  so  much/' 
said  his  wife  nicely. 

"And,  by  the  way,  I  came  out  with  Bannard 
to-night.  I  said  we  might  go  over  there  for  a 
while  this  evening  if  you  felt  like  it.  We 
haven't  been  there  for  a  long  time." 

"Aren't  you  too  tired?"  asked  his  wife  re- 
mindingly. 

"Oh,  no!  It'll  do  me  good  —  wake  me 
up/'  returned  her  husband  with  heartiness. 
"I  was  talking  to  Bannard.  We  think  of 
making  up  a  little  party  —  he  says  his  wife 
hasn't  been  out  so  much  as  she  ought  since 
the  baby  came.  What  do  you  think  of  coming 
in  Saturday  to  dinner  —  there'd  be  the  four 
of  us  —  I  can't  get  off  in  the  afternoon  —  and 
going  to  the  theatre  afterward?  What  do  you 
say  to  our  having  a  little  lark  just  among  our- 
selves?" His  arms  were  round  her,  his  eyes 
searched  hers.  Underneath  his  jovial  manner 
was  a  strain  of  anxiety  and  something  more, 

[97] 


Refractory  Husbands 


something  far  deeper,  a  confessing,  yearning,  lov- 
ing note  that  spoke  straight  to  her  heart  and  set  it 
beating.  "  Would  you  like  it,  my  Dorry,  dear?  " 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  with  large  eyes  fixed  on 
him;  it  seemed  as  if  in  another  moment  the  tears 
that  were  gathering  there  must  fall  unless  she 
smiled.  That  crust  of  ice  that  had  lain  about 
her  heart  suddenly  melted  from  the  constant 
fire  hidden  all  the  time  below  —  the  flame  that 
burned  for  him;  a  fire  that  cleansed  away  in- 
stantly some  inexpressibly  corroding  hurt,  while 
it  took  that  new-found  freedom  forever  from  her. 

Her  husband  put  up  one  long  finger  to  brush 
her  chin  and  throat.  "You  have  the  whitest 
skin,"  he  remarked  with  tender  irrelevance  . 

"Miss  Davis'  was  much  whiter,"  said  his 
wife  demurely.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  pronounced  that  woman's  name. 

"Miss  Davis!  Pshaw,  she  was  all  chalk," 
said  Beverly  Paxton  in  careless  disdain.  With 
the  fatal  facility  of  mankind  the  very  remem- 
brance of  his  thraldom  was  already  joyfully 
fading.  His  wife  had  a  wondering,  lightninglike 
perception  that  what  had  meant  so  much  to 
her  all  these  days  had,  after  all,  been  nothing 
to  him  except  in  so  far  as  she  had  been  affected 
by  it.  "I'll  tell  you  my  candid  opinion  if  you 
want  it  —  Mrs.  Beverly  Paxton  is  the  hand- 
somest and  most  attractive  woman  I  know. 
You're  the  only  girl  in  the  world  for  me!" 

[98] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


Meeting  the  Dog 

TTF    YOU'RE    looking    for  a  house,    Mrs. 

11  Wilmer,  why  don't  you  take  the  Merriam 

*^  cottage?  It  will  be  snapped  up  before  you 
know  it.  I  hear  that  the  Merriams  are  going  to 
separate,  but  I'm  not  surprised.  /  think  when 
a  man  begins  to  keep  things  from  his  wife  you 
can  always  scent  trouble  ahead." 

Mrs.  Roberts  rolled  her  fine  eyes  expressively, 
as  she  leaned  forward  in  to  the  circle,  letting 
her  completed  string  of  paper  cherry  blossoms 
fall  into  her  lap.  All  the  women  gathered  in 
Mrs.  Brentwood's  comfortable  library  were 
making  floral  decorations  for  a  Japanese  Bazaar 

—  at  the  behest  of  Mrs.  Bantry,  an  ardent  pres- 
ident of  the  club  —  with  more  or  less  concealed 
discontent  in  the  work  at  this  busy  time  of  the 
year,  Mrs.  Chandor  having  anxiously  confided 
to  her  neighbour  that  little  Lucile  didn't  have 
a  petticoat  to  her  name,  and  Lucia  Bannard 
responded  that  she  hadn't  had  a  chance  to  wash 
her  hair  for  a  month.  Every  one  looked  up 
now  as  Ethel  Roberts  went  on  speaking: 

"  Don't  you  think,  Mrs.  Brentwood,  that  a 

hoi] 


Refractory  Husbands 


wife  ought  to  be  able  to  win  her  husband's 
confidence?" 

"Why,  I  suppose  so,"  said  stout,  kind  Mrs. 
Brentwood,  somewhat  vaguely.  For  her  own 
part  she  couldn't  have  kept  her  big  middle-aged- 
boy  of  a  husband  from  telling  her  everything 
if  she  tried:  there  had  been  weak  moments 
when  she  had  half  wished  that  he  wouldn't 
tell  her  quite  so  much!  Her  eyes  and  Mrs. 
Ridgely  Ferguson's  met,  as  if  swayed  by  the 
same  feelings,  before  her  mind  reverted  to  the 
facts  mentioned. 

"Are  you  sure  about  the  Merriams?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I  heard  it  — let  me  see,  I'll  tell 
you  when  it  was;  it  was  the  night  after  your 
husband  met  the  dog,  Mrs.  Wilmer  — we  all 
thought  it  was  quite  an  adventure!  That  was 
Friday,  wasn't  it?" 

"When  Jack  met  the  dog!  He  didn't  tell 
me  anything  about  that,"  said  young  Mrs. 
Wilmer  blankly,  flushing  the  next  moment  up 
to  the  roots  of  her  beautiful  copper  red  hair. 

"He didn't!"  Mrs.  Roberts  looked  astonished 
but  instantly  recovered  herself.  She  was  a 
woman  of  almost  brutal  tact;  you  couldn't 
escape  from  it;  she  soothed  and  sympathized 
and  helped  you  up  when  you  didn't  want 
assistance,  and  made  you  seem  horribly  rude 
when  you  frantically  repelled  it.  She  went  on 
now  with  winning  sweetness : 
[102] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


"Of  course  he  wouldn't  —  I  understand 
Jack  so  well!  he  didn't  want  to  frighten  you, 
what  with  the  struggle  with  the  tramp  and 
everything;  and  dogs  can  be  so  dangerous! 
He  just  slipped  naturally  into  telling  me  about 
it  as  we  walked  along  together  from  the  train  — 
it  really  seemed  quite  like  old  times  once  more 
as  he  said;  such  friends  as  we  always  were! 
Oh,  it's  quite  right  that  none  of  us  see  him  now 
the  way  we  used  to  before  he  was  married  — • 
we  all  know  that  he  has  eyes  only  for  his  charm- 
ing young  wife!  You're  not  going  so  soon?" 

"I  must,"  said  young  Mrs.  Wilmer,  calmly, 
rising  with  apparent  disregard  of  the  secret 
glances  levelled  at  her.  She  had  a  gentle 
manner  which  delusively  covered  at  times 
the  most  incendiary  feelings.  "It's  growing 
late." 

"Indeed,  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Iverson,  rising. 
"My  son  will  be  coming  home  from  town." 

Every  one  began  making  preparations  to  go  off 
in  friendly  groups  and  companies;  only  Clemen- 
tine Wilmer,  in  her  red-brown  suit  and  hat,  with 
its  long  drooping  willow  plume  that  matched  her 
hair,  hurried  off  by  herself.  She  was  tingling 
all  over  with  wrath  at  Ethel  Roberts;  it  was 
maddening  to  have  her  act  as  if  she  alone 
saw  around  a  situation,  when  one  knew  far 
more  about  it  one's  self,  but  couldn't  say  so. 
She  remembered  with  a  superior  smile  her  hus- 
[103] 


Refractory  Husbands 


band's  irritable  remark  after  he  had  walked 
home  with  Mrs.  Roberts  last  Friday: 

"Why  in  time  does  Ethel  always  have  that 
brute  of  a  suitcase  for  me  to  carry  whenever  I 
meet  her?  I  think  Roberts  goes  on  another 
train  on  purpose." 

Why  was  she  always  hearing  from  Ethel  how 
well  every  one  knew  Jack  before  he  brought 
her  here?  She  did  not  know  that  it  was  indeed 
almost  a  foregone  conclusion  that  unless  a  youth 
grew  up  betrothed  to  his  school-companion,  he 
married  out  of  the  place;  the  intimate  social 
notice  focussed  on  his  most  ordinary  atten- 
tions to  a  young  woman  usually  crushing  out 
the  kindling  flame  in  sensitive  Man  and  sending 
him  far  afield. 

Mrs.  Wilmer's  way  led  toward  the  two- 
family  houses  that  with  their  green-topped  roofs, 
and  half-enclosed  two-story  verandas,  stretched 
in  a  row  monotonously  down  the  block,  with 
clayey  patches  of  lawn  in  front,  and  bare, 
diminutive  trees  like  lead  pencils  dwindling 
in  sentinel  line  far  along  the  curb  that  bor- 
dered the  new,  snow-sodden  earth.  She  ap- 
proached with  a  feeling  of  intense  repulsion, 
increased  by  the  discomfiture  of  the  afternoon. 
Last  summer,  when  in  the  ardour  of  the  ap- 
proaching wedding,  the  Wilmers  had  engaged 
the  second  floor  of  the  seventh  cottage,  applaud- 
ing themselves  for  their  economy,  a  glamour  had 

[  104] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


hung  over  it  that  didn't  exist  now;  it  wasn't 
only  that  they  had  taken  the  wrong  domicile  — 
whose  lower-floor  family  seemed  to  absorb 
eternal  hordes  of  messy,  loud-calling  children 
in  their  front  piazza  and  walk,  instead  of  the 
neat,  immaculately  tenanted  dwelling  farther 
down  —  but  that  the  Wilmers  had  reached  that 
stage  of  matrimony  when  they  burned  for  a 
house  to  themselves. 

To  enter  this  place  now  added  to  the  revolt 
of  Mrs.  Wilmer 's  mind;  she  could  hardly  wait 
for  her  husband's  return,  as  she  donned  her 
pretty  lilac  and  white  house-gown,  and  set  to 
work  getting  the  dinner  —  she  was  a  good  cook  — - 
in  the  absence  of  the  maid.  Mrs.  Wilmer  had 
charm,  there  was  no  doubt  of  that;  there  was  a 
kittenish  grace  in  the  swift  movements  of  her 
rounded  figure;  in  a  kitchen  apron  with  a  bib 
her  piquant  loveliness  was  as  evident  as  in  a 
ball  dress.  Unmarried  men  whom  her  husband 
brought  to  the  house  were  moved  by  her 
charm,  not  to  love  of  her,  but  to  a  fascinated 
leaning  toward  marriage  itself;  it  was  certain 
that  Leslie  Iverson,  on  his  last  visit  from  the 
West  to  his  family,  had  proposed  to  Winifred 
Brentwood  after  a  dinner  at  the  Wilmers'. 

Mr.  Wilmer  was  wont  to  allude  to  his  wife's 
red  hair  in  delighted  explanation  of  the  fervid- 
ness  of  her  likes  and  dislikes;  the  hair  was  of  a 
beautiful  copper  colour,  but  the  strain  of  red 

[105] 


Refractory  Husbands 


was  undoubtedly  present;  it  showed  now  in  the 
way  she  greeted  her  husband,  holding  off  as  he 
bent  to  kiss  her.  He  was  five  or  six  years  older 
than  his  wife,  neither  particularly  good  looking, 
nor  tall,  nor  distinguished  in  any  way,  but  he 
had  strong,  clasping  hands,  a  direct  eye,  and 
a  nice  expression.  Clementine  often  said  with 
satisfaction  that  he  was  a  "very  man-y  kind 
of  man." 

"No,  I  don't  think  I'll  let  you  kiss  me  to- 
night. I'm  perfectly  furious  at  you!  Your 
friend,  Mrs.  Roberts,  has  been  giving  me 
information  about  you  this  afternoon."  Her 
voice  rose  tragically.  "Why  on  earth,  Jack, 
didn't  you  tell  me  about  your  meeting  the  dog?" 

"Meeting  the  dog!"  Mr.  Wilmer  held  off, 
himself  looking  down  at  her  perplexedly. 
"You're  raving,  Teen!  I  don't  know  anything 
about  meeting  a  dog!" 

"Yes,  you  do!  Mrs.  Roberts  —  I  know  sne 
was  the  hopeless  passion  of  your  life!  —  said 
that  you  had  an  adventure  with  one.  You 
told  her  about  it  the  night  you  walked  home  with 
her  and  were  so  disagreeable  afterward  because 
you  carried  her  suitcase." 

"Oh,  that!"  said  Mr.  Wilmer,  in  undisguised 
relief.  "Why,  that  was  nothing  —  nothing  at 
all!  I  give  you  my  word  I  haven't  thought 
about  it  from  that  minute  to  this."  He  sat 
down  suddenly  in  a  big  chair  and  drew  his  wife 

[106] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


down  on  the  arm  of  it.     "I'll  tell  you  now,  if 
you  want  me  to.     There  was  a  dog  had  hold  of  a 

cat,  and " 

"I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me  now,  after 
everybody  else  has  talked  of  it!  I  refuse  to 
listen.  Do  you  know  what  you  do,  Jack 
Wilmer?"  Clementine  had  her  hand  in  one 
of  his;  she  emphasized  her  words  by  soft  thumps 
with  the  other  little  fist.  "You  go  and  tell 
everything  to  the  first  person  that  comes 
along,  and  then  forget  to  say  a  word  to  me  — 
and  it's  got  to  be  stopped!  It's  bad  enough  to 
have  every  one  telling  me  what  you  always  liked, 
and  how  you  took  your  coffee,  and  the  care 
you  need  because  you're  so  susceptible  to  cold" 
—  a  specially  vicious  thump  emphasized  the 
words  —  "without  having  to  learn  your  affairs 
now  from  other  people.  There  was  your 
cousin's  engagement  that  you  never  told  me  of, 
till  I  heard  it  from  your  mother  —  and  the 
time  you  left  the  parcel  in  the  train  —  and 
when  you  took  Mr.  Bannard  to  the  doctor's, 
and  —  oh,  I  couldn't  count  the  times!  And 
this  very  afternoon,  before  the  whole  club, 
when  Ethel  Roberts  spoke  of  your  meeting 
the  dog,  and  I  didn't  know  about  it  —  it 
made  me  look  like  such  a  fool!  They  all  pity 
me;  yes,  they  do!"  The  tears  came  in  Mrs. 
Wilmer's  shining  eyes  for  a  moment,  but  she 
laughed  through  them,  audaciously,  with  a 

[107] 


Refractory  Husbands 


lovely,  glittering,  rainbowlike  effect.  "No! 
Wait  a  moment.  I'll  give  you  fair  warning. 
If  I  hear  from  any  one  else  of  your  meeting 
any  more  —  dogs,  I'll  get  even  with  you. 
Do  you  hear?" 

"You  shock  me,"  said  Mr.  Wilmer  with 
ferocity.  He  pulled  his  wife  down  into  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  fondly. 

"Oh,  I'll  shock  you  a  great  deal  more  before 
I  get  through,"  she  murmured,  with  her  cheek 
pressed  close  against  his. 

"You  won't  have  to.  I  promise  to  remember 
to  tell  you  every  single  thing  I  know  before 
I  open  my  lips  to  any  one  else.  Now,  will  that 
content  you?  Is  dinner  ready,  Teen?  —  Then 
let's  go  in." 

II 

Yet,  after  all,  it  was  only  the  next  night,  at  the 
Japanese  Bazaar  that  the  incident  occurred  about 
which  everybody  talked  so  much  afterward. 

There  was  no  place  in  the  town  to  hold 
anything  of  a  publicly  social  nature  but  Beamley 
Hall,  which  had  been  built,  apparently,  to 
thwart  as  nearly  as  might  be,  the  requirements 
of  those  who  had  to  use  it.  Its  high  ceilings 
and  bare  drab  walls  successfully  defied  any 
adequate  attempt  at  decoration,  while  the 
floor  space  was  almost  maddeningly  small;  there 
were  no  dressing-rooms  and  no  kitchen;  the 
[108] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


heroic  women  in  charge  of  the  restaurant — a  box- 
like  room  approached  through  a  dark  and 
narrow  passageway  —  wrestled  with  untold  dif- 
ficulties in  the  way  of  heating  and  apportion- 
ing food,  in  the  midst  of  unwrapping  chill  wet 
papers  from  melting  pink  blocks  of  ice-cream 
and  sending  them  forth  on  relays  of  heavy  stone 
china  —  as  from  unknown  recesses  of  the  earth, 
where  gnomes  might  lurk  —  to  satisfy  the 
demands  of  patrons  waiting  at  small  tables  bare 
of  aught  but  the  folded  Japanese  napkin,  and 
a  wilted  flower  in  a  glass  vase. 

The  fact  that  it  was  a  Japanese  Bazaar, 
with  all  the  glamour  of  being  called  the  Feast 
of  Cherry  Blossoms,  was  supposed  to  give  an 
air  of  novelty  to  the  scene;  but  all  the  garlands 
of  paper  flowers  couldn't  conceal  the  fact  that 
this  was  the  same  old  Beamley  Hall,  or  that 
the  aprons,  and  the  innumerable  coloured 
bags,  and  the  crocheted  slippers,  and  the  gilt- 
edged  china  and  perfume  taken  on  commission 
by  the  lady  who  had  a  friend  in  the  business, 
were  duplicates  of  articles  displayed  at  past 
bazaars. 

It  gave  one  a  momentary  start  indeed,  when 
the  figure  in  the  gorgeous  stork-embroidered 
kimono  turned  around  to  show  the  gentle, 
mousey  face  and  spectacled  eyes  of  Mrs.  Neff, 
the  wife  of  the  cashier  at  the  bank;  familiar, 
matronly  countenances  and  solid  forms  took 

[109] 


Refractory  Husbands 


on  no  unsuspected  enchantment  from  the 
foreign  garb,  but  rather  the  contrary.  The 
very  young  girls,  who  swooped  and  fled,  and 
came  again  down  the  room,  their  arms  around 
each  other,  were  no  more  attractive  than  in 
their  usual  bizarre  dress;  Lucia  Bannard, 
who  was  undoubtedly  handsome,  still  looked 
handsome,  though  tired,  as  if  she  might  have 
been  cleaning  house  all  day;  Eleanor  Chandor's 
delicate  prettiness  was  eclipsed. 

Only  young  Mrs.  Wilmer  showed  the  magic 
transformation.  Her  cherry-red  lips,  her  small 
white  teeth,  her  glowing  red-brown  eyes  with  the 
black  curved  arches  above  them,  her  lustrous 
skin,  her  burnished  hair,  and  lightly  swaying 
form  under  the  rope  of  cherry  blossoms,  gained 
a  new  brilliance,  a  fire  from  the  gold-embroidered 
robe  with  its  jewel-like  colours  which  encircled 
her,  and  the  polished  green  jade  pins  on  either 
side  of  her  head.  As  she  perched  on  the  outer 
edge  of  the  apron  booth  late  in  the  evening, 
laughing  and  talking,  both  men  and  women 
seemed  perforce  drawn  her  way;  her  husband, 
hovering  near,  couldn't  take  his  eyes  off  her. 

The  people  who  had  got  up  the  Bazaar 
went  from  table  to  table,  buying;  others, 
pausing  reluctantly  by  a  booth,  after  furtively 
asking  the  price  of  an  article,  fled;  the  husbands, 
a  minority,  were  yet  nobly  in  evidence,  pur- 
chasing bluffly,  with  manufactured  hilarity, 

[HO] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


from  pretty  girls,  and  saying  in  secret  to  their 
wives:  When  are  we  going  home?  Mr.  Brent- 
wood,  good  man,  having  just  conveyed  his 
sixth  party  of  tired  workers  to  and  from  the 
restaurant,  stopped  now  in  front  of  lovely  Mrs. 
Wilmer  where  she  stood  the  centre  of  a  group 
formed  by  Mrs.  Iverson,  her  son,  Leslie,  and 
his  pretty  fiancee,  Winifred  Brentwood,  with 
the  Crandalls,  the  Bannards,  the  Chandors 
and  a  few  more.  Mrs.  Roberts,  in  a  scarlet 
kimono,  leaned  across  to  say  with  business- 
like sprightliness: 

"  Don't  you  want  to  buy  out  our  table,  Mr. 
Brentwood?  We  have  these  aprons  and  glass 
towels  left,  you  see  —  such  useful  things!" 

"All  right,  I'll  take  the  bunch,"  said  Mr. 
Brentwood  shortly,  with  a  sudden  lapse  of 
enthusiasm,  throwing  a  bill  on  the  table,  and 
turning  to  his  wife.  "Most  time  to  go  home, 
isn't  it,  mother?"  The  next  moment,  with  the 
instinct  of  a  gentleman,  he  sought  to  make 
up  for  a  seeming  discourtesy. 

"Just  the  very  things  for  Winifred  here, 
Mrs.  Roberts;  I'll  hand  'em  over  for  her  house- 
keeping outfit;  it  looks  as  if  she'd  be  able  to 
use  'em  before  long,  now.  I  suppose  you  know 
that  Leslie's  got  a  position  here,  and  that  he's 
not  going  back  to  the  wild  and  woolly  West  at 
all?" 

"Yes,  indeed,   I've   been  pouring  forth  my 

[mi 


Refractory  Husbands 


congratulations  ever  since   I    heard  it   yester- 
day," said  Mrs.  Roberts. 

" Oh,  isn't  it  lovely!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wilmer, 
impulsively.  "To  have  you  really  stay  with 
us,  Winifred!"  Her  colour  rose  delightedly. 
"Why,  perhaps  we  can  live  near  each  other. 
It  seems  almost  too  good  to  be  true!"  She 
had  that  strange  feeling  that  comes  to  one 
suddenly  in  the  midst  of  speaking  that  this 
was  a  subject  in  some  incomprehensible  way 
to  be  avoided;  instinct  warned  her,  but  she 
wouldn't  heed  it.  "How  glad  you  must  all 
be!" 

"Yes,  indeed!"  said  Mrs.  Iverson,  looking 
fondly  at  her  handsome  son. 

"Your  husband  says  I'll  find  out  what  work 
is,  all  right,  Mrs.  Wilmer,"  announced  Leslie 
with  a  laugh. 

"And  how  did  it  all  happen?  "  pursued  Clemen- 
tine. "  I'm  crazy  to  hear.  Are  you  going  to 
be  with  the  Electrographic  Company?" 

There  was  a  sudden  hush,  an  appalled  si- 
lence. Mr.  Wilmer,  after  a  swift  glance  at  his 
wife's  face,  straightened  up  with  a  military 
effect,  as  if  to  take  all  that  was  coming  to  him. 
It  was  Leslie's  surprised  voice  that  broke  the 
stillness  after  a  moment. 

"Why,  your  husband  got  me  a  place  with 
his  firm,  Mrs.  Wilmer  —  a  mighty  good  place, 
too!  I  supposed  of  course  that  he'd  told  you. 

[112] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


He's  taken  no  end  of  trouble  about  it.  I'm 
mighty  thankful  to  him,  I  know  that! " 

"Oh,  a  place  in  your  firm/7  said  Mrs.  Wilmer, 
gazing  at  her  husband  with  a  dazed  expression. 
Her  voice  shook  slightly,  she  flushed  suddenly 
to  the  roots  of  her  beautiful  copper-coloured 
hair;  one  of  her  long  jade  pins,  caught  in  the 
cherry  blossomed  post  behind  her,  fell  on  the 
floor,  and  she  stooped  to  pick  it  up.  Her 
husband  stooped  for  it  also,  a  moment  too  late; 
she  gave  his  coat-sleeve  a  furtive,  furious 
little  jab  with  it  that  pricked  through  the  cloth 
to  the  skin.  He  started  involuntarily;  his 
jaw  dropped,  his  eyebrows  rose  —  unperceived 
by  the  others  —  in  an  extreme  astonishment 
that  turned  the  next  instant  into  suppressed 
laughter. 

"Husbands  all  need  educating,  don't  they?" 
said  Ethel  Roberts  with  winning  sweetness, 
rolling  her  fine  eyes  around  the  group,  like 
marbles.  "If  you  keep  things  from  this  dear 
little  wife  of  yours,  Jack,  we'll  all  quarrel  with 
you;  I'll  have  to  take  you  in  hand,  just  as  I 
used  to,  and  lecture  you  myself." 

"Ah,  you  see  what  the  married  man  has  to 
live  up  to,  Leslie,"  said  Mr.  Brentwood,  gen- 
ially, while  Mr.  Wilmer  tried  vainly  to  catch 
his  wife's  eye. 

Her  whole  slender  person  was  electrically 
instinct  with  anger  through  all  her  wraps, 

[us] 


Refractory  Husbands 


when  they  finally  left  the  hall  to  go  home; 
she  sheered  off  far  from  him  in  the  street;  he 
caught  her  small,  wildly-beating  fists  capably, 
and  held  them  tight  in  one  of  his  under  her  cloak, 
while  the  other  steered  her  along. 

"What  a  little  spitfire!"  he  murmured  laugh- 
ingly. "That  was  a  dig  you  gave  me!  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Teen,  7 
wouldn't  behave  like  that  for  anything!  It's 
well  for  me  that  you  don't  live  in  a  country 
where  the  women  carry  daggers  in  their  belts! 
Why,  I'll  be  afraid  to  go  home  with  you  in  the 
dark,  next.  This  is  what  comes  of  marrying 
a  girl  with  red  hair!" 

"Let  me  go!"  cried  Clementine,  wrenching 
away  ineffectually. 

"Let  you  go!  I  should  think  not."  He 
tightened  his  hold,  controlling  the  situation,  as 
she  felt,  by  main  strength.  His  voice  changed 
the  next  moment. 

"What's  the  matter?  Teen  darling  —  you're 
not  crying!  A  dear  girl  mustn't  let  herself 

be  made  unhappy  by  such  a  little  thing  as 

Why,  you  know  perfectly  well  I  wouldn't  hurt 
a  sweet  wife  for  the  world!" 

"But  you  have  hurt  me!"  The  tears  were 
raining  down  her  face,  and  she  rested  it  mo- 
mentarily against  his  shoulder  before  holding 
off  again.  "You've  hurt  me  dreadfully.  What 
do  you  suppose  all  those  people  are  saying  about 

[114] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


me  now?"  She  mimicked  Mrs.  Robert's  tone. 
"'  Dear  Jack,  it's  evident  that  his  wife  is  really 
no  companion  for  him;  he  never  seems  to  tell 
her  anything.  Of  course  he  loses  a  great  deal.' 
Oooh!  And  you  promised  me  faithfully  only 

yesterday How  did  it  happen  that  you 

never  told  me  about  Leslie,  when  you  knew 
I  was  so  interested  in  him  and  Winifred?" 

" Search  me!"  said  Mr.  Wilmer,  deeply.  "I 
give  you  my  word  that  I  thought  I  had  told 
you,  Teen."  They  had  reached  their  own 
domicile,  the  moonfight  spearing  out  the  lead- 
pencil  trees  in  thin  black  shadows  down  the 
street.  As  they  entered  their  apartment 
after  plodding  silently  up  the  stairs,  he  turned 
and  faced  his  wife  thoughtfully  where  she 
stood  under  the  gas  jet,  in  the  jewel-like 
kimono,  the  light  falling  on  her  lovely  up- 
turned face. 

"I  just  remember  now  that  I  was  thinking 
all  the  way  home  last  night  how  pleased  you'd 
be;  honest!  And  then  when  I  came  in  you 
began  all  that  yarn  about  my  meeting  a  dog, 
and  Leslie  went  clear  out  of  my  mind  and  I 
never  thought  of  him  again.  I'm  awfully 
sorry.  Let  up  now,  Teen,  dearest,  won't  you? 
Don't  you  think  you've  cried  enough?  Suppose 
we  pretend  it's  over.  I  won't  forget  again." 

"If  you  do!"  threatened  his  wife  tragically. 
She  looked  at  him  with  swimming,  appealing 

[us] 


Refractory  Husbands 


eyes,  and  then  flung  herself  upon  his  breast, 
and  strained  her  warm  arms  tightly  around  his 
neck.  "Oh,  if  you  do,  I'm  afraid  I  won't 
love  you  any  more!" 

Ill 

What  force  of  suggestion  is  it  that  makes  one 
so  often  succumb  to  temptation  just  after 
strenuous  resolving  to  the  contrary?  It  is  as 
if  the  unusual  concentration  on  a  higher  purpose 
left  the  subconscious  mind  an  easier  prey  to 
habit.  If  one  could  be  successfully  put  in  a 
comatose  condition  —  chloroformed,  as  it  were 
• —  for  ten  days  or  two  weeks,  so  that  one's  better 
resolutions  might  have  a  chance  to  subcon- 
sciously root  themselves,  one's  further  course 
might  be  much  more  satisfactory.  Unfortu- 
nately, Jack  Wilmer  was  not  subjected  experi- 
mentally to  any  chloroforming  process. 

The  very  next  day  after  the  Bazaar  the  Wilmers 
received  one  of  those  annual  letters  from  an 
agent  requesting  to  be  informed  at  once  as 
to  whether  they  wished  to  take  their  two-family 
section  for  another  year,  as  it  was  being  already 
inquired  for  by  other  parties  —  an  epistle 
which  always  produces  a  hurried,  irritated 
state  of  mind  and  the  feeling  that  the  owner 
is  only  waiting  to  thrust  in  more  desirable 
tenants.  The  Wilmers  had  for  the  last  six 

[n6] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


weeks  gone  through  the  disillusioning  process 
of  looking  for  the  Perfect  House  at  the  Right 
Price.  Most  of  the  cheap  houses  to  rent  were 
new,  boxlike  affairs,  miles  from  any  station, 
or  enormous  mansard-roof  dwellings  in  a 
state  of  decay.  There  was  one  in  Vyner  Street 
that  was  perfect,  but  the  rent  was  ten  dollars 
a  month  more  than  the  Wilmers'  outside  limit, 
and  had  been  reluctantly  but  firmly  put  out 
of  mind.  The  Merriam  cottage  headed  the 
list  of  houses  that  were  really  possible,  but  by 
Saturday  morning  a  buoyant,  contrary  feeling 
had  evolved  regarding  haste;  they  agreed 
that  they  wouldn't  be  forced  into  action  yet; 
some  more  desirable  house  might  be  put  on 
the  market  before  they  were  obliged  to  decide. 
As  usual  on  the  Saturday  half -holiday  Clemen- 
tine went  into  town  for  luncheon  and  the  matinee 
with  her  husband.  There  was  still  to  her  some- 
thing of  the  character  of  an  adventure  in  the 
journey  through  the  lower  tube  and  the  walking 
along  those  downtown  streets;  Trinity  Church, 
looming  up  suddenly  in  the  open  space  between 
the  buildings  at  either  side,  pointed  the  way 
to  Romance  by  the  path  of  Wall  Street.  The 
very  air  was  different  from  that  uptown; 
in  the  wind  that  gallantly  unfurled  a  brilliant 
flag  here  and  there,  there  was  a  flavour  of  the 
sea  that  swept  the  Battery  Wall,  farther  down; 
the  ocean-going  clouds  seemed  set  in  a  bluer  sky. 


Refractory  Husbands 


Strange,  that  a  section  given  over  to  the  prison- 
bondage  of  offices  should  be  filled  with  such 
suggestion  of  wide  and  luring  freedom!  But  Mr. 
Wilmer's  manner,  when  he  came  out  of  his  inner 
office  to  greet  his  wife,  was  disappointingly 
hurried. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Teen,  but  I  can't  go 
with  you  after  all.  There's  a  man  here  from 
the  West  —  a  customer  —  that  I've  got  to  take 
out  to  lunch." 

"Can't  you  take  me,  too?"  pleaded  Mrs. 
Wilmer,  trying  to  smile  engagingly. 

"No,  I'm  afraid  not  —  he  wants  to  talk 
business.  There  may  be  something  in  it 
for  me.  Here  are  the  theatre  tickets;  get  some 
one  to  go  with  you.  I'll  turn  up  for  tea  at  the 
Venetia,  if  I  can;  if  not,  I'll  look  for  you  in 
the  third  car  going  out." 

"Very  well,"  said  Clementine  submissively, 
but  with  a  depth  of  disappointment  in  the  eyes 
which  she  lifted  to  her  husband. 

His  answered  hers,  for  the  moment,  ten- 
derly. "I'll  see  you  to  the  elevator,"  he  sug- 
gested. He  pressed  her  hand  furtively  as  he 
hastened  her  along  the  corridor.  "I'd  have 
telephoned  you  if  I'd  had  time,  but  everything 
has  been  on  the  jump  this  morning." 

"Any  news?"  she  inquired. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  strained  expression. 
"News?  Not  that  I  know  of.  What  is  it, 
[118] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


Blicker?"  He  paused  as  a  youth  delivered  a 
message.  "  Tell  him  I'll  be  there  at  once.  .  .  . 
Here's  your  car,  Teen;  mind  the  step,  dear. 
Good-bye !" 

He  was  already  sucked  away  from  her  in  the 
whirlpool  of  the  business  world  before  she  was 
out  of  sight. 

She  ate  a  solitary  luncheon  and  annexed  a 
stray  and  uninteresting  cousin  for  the  theatre. 
It  was  an  unexpected  pleasure  later,  on  reaching 
the  Venetia,  although  her  husband  wasn't 
there,  to  be  hailed  by  a  party  of  women  already 
seated  by  a  red-candle-lighted  table;  Mrs. 
Chandor,  Lucia  Bannard,  Mrs.  Crandall,  and 
Mrs.  Roberts,  very  much  plumed  and  white 
gloved,  with  a  chair  beside  them  piled  high 
with  cloaks  and  muffs  and  chain  bags. 

"Well,  if  here  isn't  another  one!  YouVe 
come  just  in  time,  Mrs.  Wilmer.  Waiter, 
bring  another  chair;  there's  plenty  of  room. 
You  never  can  come  in  here  on  Saturday  after- 
noon without  meeting  some  of  the  crowd." 

"This  is  really  very  comfortable,  not  too 
near  the  orchestra,"  said  Elinor  Chandor 
happily  after  all  the  orders  had  been  given. 
"What  did  you  see  this  afternoon,  Mrs.  Wilmer? 
Did  you  have  a  pleasant  time?  " 

"Why,  I  expected  my  husband  to  be  with 
me,"  returned  Clementine,  an  unconscious  note 
of  wistfulness  creeping  into  her  voice.  "I 


Refractory  Husbands 


went  to  his  office,  but  he  was  too  busy  to  get 
away." 

"I  never  feel  as  if  they  were  really  as  busy  as 
they  say  they  are.  I  believe  they  can  always 
get  away  if  they  really  want  to,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Crandall  placidly. 

"Oh,  if  you  went  to  Jack's  office,  Mrs.  Wil- 
mer,"  cried  Mrs.  Roberts,  "of  course,  then  he 
told  you ! "  Her  big  dark  eyes  rolled  over  toward 
Mrs.  Wilmer.  "I  wasn't  going  to  breathe  a 
word,  if  you  hadn't  seen  him.  I  think  it  is 
so  mean  to  tell  another  person's  special  news 
before  he  has  a  chance  to!" 

"We  will  be  so  glad  to  have  you  for  a  neigh- 
bour," said  Mrs.  Chandor. 

"A  neighbour  I"  repeated  Mrs.  Wilmer,  un- 
warily. 

"It  certainly  was  fortunate  that  Jack  heard 
about  those  other  people  on  his  way  to  the 
train  and  went  and  had  it  all  settled  up  at  once 
with  the  agent,  or  you  would  have  lost  the 
chance  altogether,"  continued  Mrs.  Roberts 
to  Mrs.  Wilmer's  mystified  expression.  "That 
was  how  he  happened  to  go  in  to  town  with 
me  on  the  9:04.  He  was  so  sweet  about  carry- 
ing my  bag,  though  he  said  he  would  be  terribly 
late  at  the  office.  I  told  him  that  now  he  had 
taken  the  Merriam  cottage " 

"Taken  the  Merriam  cottage!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Wilmer  involuntarily. 

[120] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


"Why,  didn't  he  tell  you?"  asked  Mrs. 
Roberts.  She  stopped  short,  staring;  Mrs. 
Chandor  looked  at  her  plate.  Mrs.  Wilmer's 
face  evolved  after  an  instant's  strange  contor- 
tioning  into  a  brilliant,  superior  smile  of  com- 
prehension and  amusement.  Nobody  would 
have  guessed  that  her  circulation  had  nearly 
stopped  with  the  effort;  her  hands  were  icy 
chill  as  she  went  on  brightly : 

"Isn't  Jack  the  most  absurd  fellow!"  She 
appealed  to  the  tableful  at  large,  tingling  sud- 
denly with  the  audacious  resolve  to  conquer 
this  situation  anyway.  "Half  the  time  when 
people  question  him"  -she  paused  impercep- 
tibly—  "he  doesn't  know  what  he  answers! 
He  gets  more  and  more  absent-minded  every 
day.  No  wonder  I  was  surprised  when  you 
spoke  of  the  Merriam  cottage,  Mrs.  Roberts; 
it  is  the  Vyner  Street  house  that  we  have 
taken!" 

"The  Vyner  Street  house!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Roberts,  bewilderment  in  her  tone.  She  stuck 
to  the  point.  "Aren't  you  mistaken?  He 

certainly  told  me He  said  the  Vyner  Street 

house  was  much  too  expensive." 

"  It  certainly  is,"  agreed  Clementine.  "  There 
are  occasions,  however,  when  a  man  feels  it 
best,  you  know,  to  make  the  effort."  She  turned 
laughingly  to  the  others.  "I  see  that  Mrs. 
Roberts  doesn't  quite  believe  me;  but  I  assure 

[121] 


Refractory  Husbands 


you  that  it  is  the  Vyner  Street  house  —  and 
I  ought  to  know.7' 

"Well,  if  you  will  put  me  in  such  positions, 
I  have  to  do  something  to  defend  myself/7 
said  Clementine  impishly,  later,  as  she  ended 
her  recital  to  her  husband.  She  was  sitting 
in  the  third  car  with  him. 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Wilmer.  When  she  had 
reached  her  climax  his  jaw  had  fallen  and  his 
eyebrows  lifted  in  the  same  astonished  fashion 
as  when  she  had  stuck  him  on  that  other 
occasion  with  her  jade  pin.  He  regarded  her 
now  thoughtfully.  He  had  a  masterful  way 
at  times  of  holding  her  hands  down  spiritually 
as  well  as  literally;  she  was  too  dear  to  be  allowed 
to  work  her  untrained  will.  There  was  a 
softening  through  his  inscrutable  gaze  as  he 
met  her  dazzling  red-brown  eyes,  full  of  elfish 
defiance;  her  red-brown  willow  plume  danced 
over  the  copper  brown  hair  with  its  strain  of 
red;  her  face,  with  its  cherry  lips  and  white 
teeth,  seemed  full  of  tantalizing,  provocative 
light  as  she  poured  forth  fiery,  disconnected 
sentences.  Every  man  around  appeared  to  be 
buried  in  his  newspaper,  yet  every  eye,  Jack  felt 
was  drawn  her  way. 

"Nothing  has  gone  right  since  you  began  by 
meeting  the  dog!      I'm  not  going  to  care  for 
you  any  more!    I'll  pay  that  extra  rent  out  of 
[122] 


Meeting  the  Dog 


my  allowance;  I  won't  buy  any  more  clothes 
for  a  year.  If  you  think  I  could  possibly  live 

in  the  Merriam  cottage  after That  woman 

sets  my  teeth  on  edge;  I  can't  stand  her. 
Can't  you  see  that  I  had  to  get  the  best  of  her?" 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  her  husband  deliberately. 
While  she  talked  he  had  perhaps  been  planning 
ways  and  means  of  getting  out  of  one  contract 
and  into  another;  the  man  from  the  West  had 
meant  a  good  thing.  "But  why  do  you  speak 
of  giving  up  your  allowance,  Teen?  Of  course 
you  knew  I  would  make  sure  where  the  money 
was  coming  from  when  I  took  the  Vyner  Street 
house." 

"Before  you  took  it!"  Clementine  gasped. 
"Did  you  take  it,  then?" 

"Am  I  not  telling  you?"  asked  Mr.  Wilmer, 
with  masculine  dignity. 

"But  Mrs.  Roberts  said  - 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Teen,  drop  Ethel 
Roberts!  You've  got  her  on  the  brain.  I 
never  told  her  a  single  thing  about  the  Vyner 
Street  house,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour. 
Can't  you  understand  that  I'm  telling  you,  for 
the  first  time,  now?  If  she  was  gassing  about  the 
Merriam  cottage  I  can't  help  it,  can  I?  You'd 
better  call  a  halt,  Teen,  after  this;  you  see  once 
for  all,  how  foolish  you  are  to  think  I  don't  tell 
you  things.  I  hope  the  Vyner  Street  house 
satisfies  you ;  it  certainly  does  me." 

[123] 


Refractory  Husbands 


"But  I  don't  understand!"  said  Clementine, 
helplessly.  The  train  was  already  jarring  into 
the  station,  but  she  paused  as  she  rose. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  —  why,  it's  all  perfectly 
ridiculous!  You  have  me  so  twisted,  Jack,  on 

purpose Mrs.  Roberts  —  you  think  you 

have  the  best  of  me,  but " 

"The  incident,"  said  Mr.  Wilmer,  magisteri- 
ally, "is  closed.  I  wish  to  hear  no  more  about 
it.  Come  on,  Teen!"  A  triumphant  and 
dancing  gleam  showed  itself  momentarily  in  his 
eyes  as  he  bent  over  to  help  her  down  the 
high  step.  "Now  will  you  be  good?" 


Marrying  Willow 


Marrying  Willow 

THINK  Willow  should  be  told  that  she 
ought  to  marry  him !"  Mrs.  Bantry,  a  very 
stout,  black-haired  woman  in  brown,  spoke 
emotionally. 

The  few  members  of  the  cooking  lecture 
class,  just  out  from  an  ineffective  Thirty 
Minutes  with  the  Saratoga  Chip,  stood  on 
the  corner  of  Main  Street,  the  differing  feathers 
in  their  hats  all  wildly  blowing,  as  they  talked 
in  an  intimate  group  before  parting:  they  were 
all  matrons,  though  of  various  ages,  from  the 
bridal  Winifred  Iverson  to  her  mother,  Mrs. 
Brentwood.  The  attendance  on  Miss  Willow 
Walter's  Talks,  on  whatever  subject,  from  the 
Minor  Prophets  to  her  present  cooking  series, 
had  dwindled  alarmingly  of  late,  only  the  inner 
circle  of  the  faithful  remaining  to  pay  that 
pitiful  two  dollars  for  the  course. 

"It  does  seem  to  me  that  when  things  have 
come  to  this  pass — "  Mrs.  Bantry  was  going 
on  more  emotionally.  "What  income  there 
was,  stopped  when  her  father  died;  and  now 
I  hear  that  the  house  —  they  never  paid  any 

[127] 


Refractory  Husbands 


taxes  on  it  —  is  to  be  torn  down  to  make  way 
for  the  new  street.  They're  going  to  rebuild 
the  Guild  room,  so  she  has  to  give  up  her  Talks, 
though  that's  no  loss  to  me:  she  may  know  about 
the  Prophet  Ezra,  but  she  knows  nothing  about 
cooking;  besides,  as  Mr.  Bantry  always  says, 
there  is  no  nourishment  in  a  Saratoga  Chip! 
But  how  that  poor  girl  is  going  to  get  along 
I  don't  know;  in  these  days  women  know  how 
to  do  things,  and  she  doesn't.  I  heard  for 
a  fact  that  last  week  that  she  lived  on  a 
dollar  forty-nine"  —  Mrs.  Bantry  paused  with 
agitation.  "I  couldn't  sleep  last  night  think- 
ing of  it.  Of  course  she's  so  close-mouthed 
she  never  tells  you  a  thing.  And  she's  so 
unbusinesslike!  If  you  do  her  the  least  little 
kindness  she  goes  and  buys  you  flowers!  And 
just  now  —  when  she  seems  to  have  come  to 
the  jumping-off  place  —  to  have  a  perfectly 
good,  respectable  man  like  Mr.  Porch  offer 
to  marry  her  —  he's  not  rich,  but  he  can  lift 
her  out  of  this  awful  struggle  —  /  call  it  Prov- 
idential!" 

"Of  course,  Mr.  Porch  is  —  well,  of  course, 
we  know  he's  'not  quite,'"  ventured  the  elder 
Mrs.  Iverson.  "Not  quite,"  was  her  delicate 
synonyme  for  those  in  a  slightly  lower  scale 
of  refinement.  "But  every  one  says  he  is  a 
very  excellent  man;  he  is  so  good  to  his 
mother;  and  I  have  always  heard  that  very 

[128] 


Marrying  Willow 


large  ears  are  a  sign  of  a  generous  disposition. 
It  is  rather  a  pity,  perhaps,  that  he  has  so 

many  children,  but "  She  broke  off  with 

a  sigh.  "Mr.  Iverson  always  admires  Willow's 
air  and  manner,  and  he  says  she  is  so  restful; 
although  he  is  slightly  deaf,  he  can  always 
hear  everything  she  says/' 

"Well,  I  think  Mr.  Porch  is  a  very  nice 
man  indeed.  I  shall  never  forget  how  kind 
he  was  that  time  I  was  trying  to  get  Ellen 
into  the  hospital,"  said  Mrs.  Bannard  em- 
phatically. Lucia  was  a  very  handsome  young 
woman  with  dark  eyes,  glowing  cheeks,  and 
an  impulsive  manner.  A  vision  of  the  solid 
Mr.  Porch  with  his  sandy  hair  and  gray  suit 
materialized  before  her.  "If  Willow  —  hush, 
here  she  comes  now." 

They  all  stood  looking  after  Miss  Walters 
a  moment  as  she  passed  swiftly  by,  as  usual, 
with  that  effect  of  flying  from  something 
that  pursued  her.  When  a  person  wears 
overshoes  on  a  perfectly  dry  day,  there  can 
be  but  one  interpretation  of  the  act;  the 
meagre  black  jacket  and  hat  showed  poverty 
in  every  line,  though  she  carried  her  tall,  very 
thin  figure  with  a  peculiarly  graceful  ease,  her 
small  head  drooping  slightly  to  one  side.  Her 
small  face  was  colourless,  and  her  pale  lips 
drooped  also  slightly  at  the  corners.  She  had, 
however,  very  beautiful  blue  eyes  veiled  by 
[129] 


Refractory  Husbands 


a  misty  haze,  through  which  she  seemed  to  be 
striving  to  understand  Life.  They  had  at  times 
an  indefinably  helpless  and  pathetic  expression 
which  appealed  to  the  inherent  chivalry  of  every 
married  man  who  knew  her. 

Colourless  as  she  seemed,  she  had  had  the 
strangely  startling  experience  of  once  being  en- 
gaged for  a  short  time  to  a  young  English- 
man, an  attractive,  delicate  fellow,  who  was 
found  afterward  to  be  married;  he  swore  he 
had  thought  his  wife  was  dead.  Those  who 
knew  told  of  the  telegram  received  by  Willow 

—  a  lightning   stroke  —  and    that   anguished 
parting     afterward     between     the     miserable 
lovers.      Willow   had   been   found   lying   face 
downward  on  the  matted  floor  of  the  sitting- 
room  by  the  faded  green  rep  lounge,  with  the 
lengths  of  black  stovepipe  overhead.    An  odd 
flavour  of  romance  had  clung  to  her  since  from 
the  fact  that  she  passionately  refused  to  hear 
him  blamed,  flying  into  incongruous,  shattering 
tears  and  fury  at  any  hint  of  it.     It  seemed 
to  show  something  —  a  spirit  of  daring,  perhaps 

—  different  from  what  any  one  would  expect 
in  Willow.    The  wife  had  really  died   after- 
ward, but  he  had  married  again  in  Australia. 

Ever  since  then  Willow  had  lived,  gentle, 
repressed  and  reticent,  in  a  tumble-down 
house  with  an  incredibly  old  father,  who  seemed 
to  have  lost  all  power  of  human  companionship 


Marrying  Willow 


in  the  mere  tottering  effort  to  live,  until  his 
death  a  year  ago. 

"I  met  Willow  Walters  in  town  to-day," 
said  Donald  Bannard  that  night  as  he  sat  in 
the  cosy,  red-curtained  upstairs  sitting-room, 
smoking  by  the  log  fire,  his  long  legs  over 
one  arm  of  the  chair,  and  his  curly  head  at 
an  appropriate  angle,  while  Lucia,  in  a  blue 
gown,  mended  his  gloves  with  fierce  little 
pats  and  pulls  at  the  fingers. 

"By  George,  it's  a  shame  about  that  girl! 
She  looks  as  if  she  didn't  get  enough  to  eat. 
She  was  with  that  woman  who  lodges  with 
her;  a  weird  old  party,  with  a  black  wig,  a 
purple  bonnet  with  strings,  a  sense  of  humour 
and  a  cultivated  accent;  she  might  be  worse." 

"  Willow  has  a  perfect  genius  for  lodgers 
who  never  pay  her,"  interpolated  his  wife. 

"I  took  them  both  to  lunch.  Bassenden  was 
with  me  —  the  man  we  met  at  the  Iversons  V 

Lucia  let  the  gloves  drop,  her  face  flushed, 
ecstatically. 

"Mr.  Bassenden!" 

"Yes,  he  doesn't  go  back  to  Denver  until 
his  boy  gets  out  of  the  hospital,  next  Friday. 
Well,  we  gave  those  two  women  a  bang-up 
luncheon;  I  knew  you'd  want  me  to." 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  telephone  for  me  to 
come  in,  when  you  knew  Mr.  Bassenden  was 
there?"  cried  Lucia  poignantly. 

[131] 


Refractory  Husbands 


"How  could  I?  It  was  one  o'clock  then. 
Use  sense,  Lucia.  At  any  rate,  he's  coming 
to  us  for  the  Thursday  Evening  Club  meet- 
ing next  week." 

"  Not  really !    How  perfectly  grand ! " 

"I  thought  you'd  be  pleased.  And  by 
the  way,  Lucia,  Willow  gave  me  one  of  her 
cards  with  her  new  scheme  on  it:  Orders 
taken  for  dinners,  luncheons,  suppers  a  spe- 
cialty. I  thought  you  might  pay  her  to  take 
the  supper  in  charge  —  the  baby  takes  up  so 
much  of  your  time  now  that  he's  teething." 

"Well,  of  all  things!  Here  this  morning 
you  were  preaching  economy  to  me,  and  now, 

because  you  think  of  this  yourself "  She 

appealed,  with  flushed  cheeks,  to  the  Uni- 
versal Spirit  of  Womankind. 

"Aren't  men  funny!  They  hate  to  spend 
twenty-five  cents  for  a  new  gas  bracket,  but 
when  it  comes  to  big  things!  All  right,  if 
you'll  pay." 

"I'll  pay.  We've  got  to  do  something  to 
help  her.  Willow  will  get  the  chance  to 
be  upstairs  with  us  part  of  the  time,  won't 
she?" 

"Certainly." 

"Then  that's  settled.  Speaking  of  Wil- 
low," Mr.  Bannard  reared  his  handsome  head 
indignantly;  "I  heard  about  Hen  Porch  to- 
night, and  I  think  it's  a  darned  shame!  If 


Marrying  Willow 


that's  all  you  women  can  do,  to  let  her  marry 
Hen  Porch!" 

"Stop  banging  the  table.  You  shake  the 
lamp!  Donald  Bannard,  do  you  know  how 
old  Willow  is?" 

"No,  and  I  don't  want  to.  She's  a  lovely 
girl,  that's  what  she  is!  If  she  hasn't  mar- 
ried before  this,  it's  because  young  men  are 
so  stuck  on  themselves  they  don't  know  a 
good  thing  when  they  see  it,  and  that  awful 
father  of  hers  was  enough  to  keep  any  one 
away.  But  she  hits  it  off  with  a  married 
man  all  right.  That  fellow  who  liked  her 
first  was  married  —  that's  what  gave  him 
sense.  She's  the  kind  a  married  man  can 
talk  to  without  any  foolishness  about  it:  she's 
sweet  and  she's  restful  and  she  keeps  track  of 
what  you're  telling  her  without  any  inter- 
ruptions —  and  her  eyes  make  you  feel  that 
you're  a  big  strong  man.  Bassenden  said  he 
hadn't  enjoyed  meeting  a  woman  so  much  in 
a  long  time.  And  then  you  talk  of  Hen  Porch! 
What  I  can't  see  is,  why  you  women  haven't 
got  together  before  now,  and  married  her  off 
once  for  all.  You  just  selfishly  enjoy  your 
own  perfectly  good  husbands,  and  don't  do 
a  thing  for  her." 

"Donald  Bannard ' 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  all  you  are  going  to  say. 
I'm  vulgar,  of  course.  But  what  is  the  use 

[133] 


Refractory  Husbands 


of  women  howling  for  the  vote  and  bragging 
of  the  way  they'll  rule  for  the  good  of  every 
one,  if  they  can't  so  much  as  marry  off  one 
sweet,  unprotected  woman  in  their  midst? 
/  could,  if  I  got  busy,  I  know  that." 

"Then  why  don't  you?" 

"Very  well,  I  will.  I'll  ask  old  Hooker 
out.  He  hasn't  been  here  in  ages." 

"Mr.  Hooker " 

"There  you  go!  You've  never  forgiven 
him  for  being  fat,  and  for  eating  up  mush- 
rooms  when  you  didn't  have  enough.  Well, 
if  he  is  fond  of  his  food,  all  the  more  reason 
why  he  should  take  to  Willow.  I'll  tell  him 
it's  her  show,  and  he'll  be  struck  by  her  ability. 
You  reach  a  man's  heart  through  his  stomach. 
At  any  rate,  he's  a  gentleman  —  he's  no  Hen 
Porch.  Mrs.  Bannard,  have  the  goodness  to 
stop.  I  wish  an  end  to  this  unseemly  brawl. 
I  want  to  read." 

In  the  Bannard  family  there  was  never  any 
real  conversation  —  one  or  the  other  of  them 
held  the  floor.  Only  Lucia,  of  course,  had  the 
last  word.  "I  do  think  Mr.  Porch  is  a  very 
nice  man,"  she  said,  before  she  gave  herself 
up  to  the  delightful  anticipation  of  entertaining 
Mr.  Bassenden. 

Good  food  was  the  cult  of  the  Thursday 
Evening  Club;  supper  had  much  to  do  with 

[,134] 


Marrying  Willow 


the  popularity  of  the  house  where  it  was  served. 
It  was  always  rather  difficult,  for  instance,  to 
get  the  men  to  the  Iversons',  where  the  enormous 
silver  trays  offered  one  the  most  minute  of 
p&tes,  a  mouthful  of  marblelike  pink  and  green 
ice,  sandwiches  the  size  of  postage  stamps, 
and  a  thimbleful  of  coffee.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  was  also  a  feeling  of  tempered  enjoyment 
toward  the  Crandalls,  where  the  black  walnut 
table  with  its  blue  doilies,  worked  by  old 
Mrs.  Crandall,  was  spread  with  platters  of 
lukewarm  rarebit  and  a  salad  that  delusively 
aroused  anticipation  by  simulating  the  festive 
lobster,  when  it  was  really  only  the  same  old 
apple  and  Spanish  pepper,  with  a  mayonnaise 
that  left  no  impression  on  the  mixture.  The 
Brentwoods,  of  course,  excelled  every  one  else 
in  their  chicken  and  mushrooms,  and  hot 
biscuits;  the  Chandors  and  Paxtons  ran  a 
close  second;  Lucia  herself  always  strove  to 
have  something  original  as  well  as  good. 

The  prospect  of  having  Mr.  Hooker  in 
Willow's  behalf,  combined  with  the  honour  of 
entertaining  Mr.  Bassenden,  made  her  feel 
that  no  effort  could  be  too  great. 

Mr.  Bassenden  had  happened  to  stay 
over  night  the  week  before  at  the  Iversons' 
when  the  Club  had  its  last  meeting;  he  had 
known  Mr.  Iverson  some  years  ago  in  Den- 
ver, the  latter,  as  a  semi-invalid,  having  later 

[135] 


Refractory  Husbands 


somewhat  lost  track  of  his  friends.  Those 
who  had  met  the  stranger,  the  women  espe- 
cially, looked  back  upon  it  as  an  Event. 

He  was  a  man  of  forty-five  or  so,  remark- 
ably handsome  in  a  large,  clean,  masculine 
way;  he  had  a  broad  forehead  under  his  thick, 
waving,  slightly  grayish  hair;  his  eyes  were 
brilliantly  blue;  his  nose  was  straight,  his 
chin  square,  and  very  white  teeth  showed 
when  he  smiled  delightfully.  He  had  a  certain 
gracefulness  of  power  in  every  motion  of  his 
tall,  rather  solid,  square-shouldered  figure, 
when  he  leaned  on  the  mantelpiece  talking 
to  Mr.  Iverson,  or  brought  a  chair  forward 
for  Mrs.  Bantry.  He  had  a  quiet,  but  charm- 
ing manner  that  seemed  to  be  the  outcome  of  a 
noble  nature.  Magnetism  radiated  from  him; 
wherever  he  stood,  was  easily  the  centre  of 
the  room. 

That  he  was  one  of  the  finest  men  Mr. 
Iverson  had  ever  known;  that  he  was  very 
wealthy;  that  he  had  told  Mr.  Iverson  he 
had  come  East  to  visit  a  sick  boy  at  school; 
that  his  wife  —  whom  Mr.  Iverson  remem- 
bered as  a  very  domineering  woman,  had 
died  some  years  before;  that  he  and  his  brother 
Arthur  had  lived  alone  in  his  magnificent 
house  in  Denver,  but  that  he  himself  was  to 
be  married  and  bring  a  new  mistress  there, 
were  all  component  parts  of  slight  information 

[136] 


Marrying  Willow 


gleaned  by  eager  questioners.  Mr.  Iverson, 
who  was  somewhat  deaf,  had  at  least  understood 
that  the  fourth  of  the  next  month  was  the  date 
of  the  wedding.  To  Mrs.  Iverson,  who  had 
questioned  Mr.  Bassenden  as  to  the  bride- 
elect,  the  latter  had  simply  replied: 

"  She  is  very  beautiful." 

It  was  impossible  to  pursue  the  subject  of 
his  personal  affairs. 

The  men  admired  his  physical  perfections 
with  the  ardour  which  only  men  evince  to  one  of 
their  own  sex,  while  they  unanimously  voted 
him  a  good  fellow;  to  the  women  he  held  an 
even  stronger  appeal  to  sentiment  in  a  glamour 
such  as  might  surround  royalty,  or  a  great 
tenor.  His  lightest  word,  or  fleeting  glance, 
seemed  instinct  with  a  subtle  insight,  a  high, 
heart-to-heart  appreciation.  Each  woman  felt 
it  meant  for  her  alone,  with  a  yearning  impres- 
sion that  she  could  say  things  to  him  that  a 
lesser  man  wouldn't  understand.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Bantry  told,  with  shining  eyes,  how  wonderful 
he  was  in  picking  up  her  handkerchief  three 
times. 

"I  can't  tell  you  what  there  was  about  it 
that  made  it  different;  it  just  simply  showed 
that  he  never  forgot  you,  even  when  he  seemed 
to  be  absorbed  in  talking  to  some  one  else!" 

Later  they  had  had  an  unfinished  conver- 
sation on  the  presence  of  spirits. 

[137] 


Refractory  Husbands 


Nineteen-year-old  Audrey  Brentwood  had 
announced,  in  the  brazen  parlance  of  the  day, 
that  she  was  perfectly  crazy  over  Mr.  Bassenden. 
She  didn't  care  what  his  age  was;  if  he  were  not 
going  to  be  married  already,  he  could  have  her! 

Mrs.  Cranmore  sent  him  over  one  of  her 
celebrated  fresh  eggs  for  his  breakfast.  Elinor 
Chandor  elaborately  copied  out  a  Scotch 
song  that  he  said  his  mother  had  sung.  Mrs. 
Wank  sent  him  a  repulsive,  thin,  gilded  copy  of 
her  "Two  Days  in  the  Yellowstone,"  which 
nobody  had  ever  been  known  to  read.  Lucia 
Bannard  herself  impulsively  wrote  him  a  little 
note,  beginning: 

"Just  a  line,  dear  Mr.  Bassenden,  to  tell 
you  how  wonderfully  I  enjoyed  your  descrip- 
tion last  night  of  the  Oberammergau  play. 
I  thought  you  would  like  to  know  that  you 
made  it  seem  something  more  to  me  than  it 
had  ever  been  before.  If  I  ever  see  it  myself, 
I  shall  think  of  you."  But  after  all  she  didn't 
send  it;  a  vision  of  Donald's  raised  eyebrows 
and  pursed  whistling  lips  made  her  feel  foolish. 
As  Elinor  Chandor  said,  you  didn't  need  to  tell 
things  to  a  man  like  that;  he  understood  with- 
out it. 

The  only  woman  whom  Mr.  Bassenden 
hadn't  spoken  to  that  night  was  Willow  Walters. 
Mrs.  Iverson  said  he  had  noticed  her  once 
sitting  over  by  the  dark  green  portiere,  which 

[138] 


Marrying  Willow 


showed  off  her  drooping  white-clad  figure  and 
her  fairness,  and  had  asked  about  her;  Mrs. 
Iverson  had  given  him  a  brief  account  of  Wil- 
low's history,  and  he  seemed  interested,  but 
he  didn't  seek  her  afterward,  though  it  was  dis- 
approvingly noticed  that  Willow,  looking  up 
once  and  meeting  his  eyes,  had  flushed.  It 
was  felt  to  be  a  little  forward  of  her  to  blush 
so  intimately. 

Lucia  spent  a  morning  in  consultation  with 
Miss  Walters  about  the  eventful  Thursday, 
the  latter  bringing  a  selection  of  recipes  and 
menus  with  her.  Lucia  saw  her  from  the 
window  as  she  came  along  accompanied  by  the 
candidate  for  matrimony,  the  excellent  Mr. 
Porch,  who  as  a  contractor,  didn't  go  to  town 
with  the  men.  His  plain,  heavy-chinned  face 
was  agleam,  but  by  the  side  of  his  solid  com- 
monplaceness  her  air  of  delicate,  fugitive  aloof- 
ness seemed  even  more  evident,  as  she  hurried 
lightly  along. 

To  Lucia's  critical  eye  Willow  looked  un- 
usually well  as  she  entered;  a  faint  colour  in 
her  cheek  appeared  to  be  called  forth  by  a  long- 
stemmed  deep  crimson  rose,  in  the  front  of 
her  shabby,  tight-fitting  black  jacket,  that  set 
off  her  whole  costume,  but  her  beautiful  blue 
eyes  seemed  to  have  a  more  childlike  and 
helpless  look  than  ever  under  their  haze. 

"Now,   Mrs.   Bannard,"   she   announced  in 

[139] 


Refractory  Husbands 


her  sweet,  low  voice,  "  before  we  decide  on 
the  bill  of  fare,  I  want  it  understood  that  I 
am  to  have  all  the  responsibility  of  this  supper, 
or  I  will  not  undertake  it  at  all.  That  is  what 
you  pay  me  for,  and  pay  well.  I  will  not 
accept  one  penny  unless  I  do  the  work." 

"Very  well,"  said  Lucia  meekly,  but  with  a 
side  glance  at  the  speaker.  Could  Willow  do  it? 

"Then  how  would  you  like  frogs'  legs  en 
casserole,  with  nuts  and  whipped  cream?  That's 
quite  new." 

"N-no,  I  don't  think  men  care  much  for 
nuts  and  whipped  cream.  As  Mr.  Bassen- 
den  will  be  here,  and  a  friend  from  town,  a  Mr. 
Hooker,  I'd  like  everything  to  be  very  nice." 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  have  a  receipt  —  a  very 
interesting  dish  made  of  the  breasts  of  par- 
tridges. You  chop  them  first,  and  then " 

"You  may  skip  that." 

The  lines  in  Miss  Walters'  forehead  began  to 
show,  the  colour  in  her  cheeks  faded  out. 

"How  would  you  like  individual  oyster  pies? 
Not  pates,  but  deep  English  pies,  served  very 
hot,  with  celery  and  pickle  sandwiches?" 

"That  sounds  good,"  approved  Lucia,  "  Very 
good,"  she  repeated,  adding  swiftly,  "Why 
not  have  a  nice  chicken  salad  with  that;  they 
would  combine  well  together,  and  be  enough 
solid  food,  with  the  coffee." 

"Very  well.     Then  afterward  you  could  have 

[  140] 


Marrying  Willow 


a  fruit  ice-cream  with  candied  cherries  and 
chestnuts  in  it,  served  with  a  clear  orange 
jelly  cut  into  strips,  little  frosted  pound  cakes 
and  macaroons." 

"That  really  is  charming,"  cried  Lucia. 
"But  you  can't  see  to  all  this  yourself;  of 
course,  you'll  have  Ellen  in  the  kitchen,  but 
she's  so  inefficient;  I  do  wish  you'd  let  me 
help  you." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  have  all  the  directions 
here,"  said  Miss  Walters  in  her  even  tone, 
touching  the  papers  in  her  hand.  "If  you'll 
excuse  me,  I  think  I'll  be  going  now.  I'll  make 
out  my  list  of  materials  and  quantities  later." 

"If  you  haven't  enough  money " 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  I  have  enough." 

"I  wish  you'd  come  to  see  me  oftener," 
said  Lucia  impulsively. 

"I  have  so  little  time " 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  oh,  haven't  things  been 
terribly  hard  for  you  sometimes?  I've  been 
so  sorry  I  Wouldn't  it  perhaps  be  best  now  if  — 

Please  don't  mind  if  I  ask "  Lucia  stopped; 

Willow  was  gazing  past  her  with  something  oddly 
bright  in  her  smile.  The  sweet  voice  in  which 
she  spoke  seemed  to  come  from  afar. 

"No,  it  hasn't  been  so  hard.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  can  make  you  understand;  sometimes  I 
don't  understand  myself,  but  I  haven't  minded 
my  life  at  all  —  truly  I  haven't!  Ever  since 

[HI] 


Refractory  Husbands 


something  happened  to  me  —  that's  nine  years 
ago  —  it's  just  as  if  the  real  /  had  been  put 
to  sleep,  drugged,  I  have  just  gone  on  and  on, 
and  on;  it  hasn't  made  any  difference,  I  haven't 
minded  until  now.  But  these  last  few 
days"  —  her  lips  suddenly  trembled  —  "  they've 
changed  it  all;  I'm  getting  terribly  afraid  I'll 
wake  up !  That  —  that  would  be  bad.  I 
don't  know  why  I'm  saying  this  to  you  —  but 
you're  so  sweet  to  me!  When  I  come  in  a 
house  like  this  —  there's  something  different 
in  a  house  where  people  love  each  other;  perhaps 
you  don't  notice  it,  but  I  do."  She  put  both 
hands  in  Lucia's  and  the  two  stood  silent  for 
a  moment. 

"You  have  the  prettiest  place  behind  your 
ear,"  said  Lucia  irrelevantly. 

Miss  Walters  suddenly  flushed  scarlet,  as  at 
some  revealing  remembrance.  She  put  up  one 
hand  to  her  neck  involuntarily  as  if  to  hide  it 
from  sight. 

"I  really  must  leave!  Give  yourself  no  un- 
easiness about  the  supper;  it  will  be  all  right," 
she  said  in  her  usual  tone,  and  was  gone. 

"But  I  don't  know  whether  it  will  be  all 
right  or  not!"  Lucia  said  that  evening  to 
her  husband,  after  she  had  got  as  far  as  this 
in  her  narrative.  "Is  Mr.  Hooker  coming?" 

"Yes;  he  remembered  Willow." 

"Have  you  seen  Mr.  Bassenderi?" 
[142] 


Marrying  Willow 


"Not  to  speak  to.  I  saw  him  yesterday, 
though,  in  Fraunces  Tavern,  lunching  with 
Willow.'' 

"What?" 

"True  as  you're  born."  Mr.  Bannard  set 
his  lips  in  a  straight  line  as  he  met  his  wife's 
eyes.  "He's  a  handsome  brute,  and  no  mis- 
take! They  seemed  to  be  having  a  very 
good  time  together.  He  took  her  into  the 
florist's  afterward  and  bought  her  crimson 
roses.  I  happened  to  look  through  the  win- 
dow as  I  passed." 

"She  had  one  on  to-day,"  said  Lucia  breath- 
lessly. "Donald  Bannard!  And  you  never 
told  me  a  word  last  night!" 

"Why  should  I?" 

"Why  should  you!  Anything  as  extraor- 
dinary as  that " 

"Not  extraordinary  at  all.  He's  an  awfully 
nice  fellow,  and  she's  a  very  lovely  woman." 

"What?  When  she  hardly  knows  him,  and 
he's  to  be  married  next  week?  Stop  hunching 
yourself  together;  I  hate  you  when  you  make 
yourself  look  idiotic.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  if  you  were  away  in  another  city  a  week 
before  we  were  married,  you  would  have  taken 
a  girl  out  to  lunch  alone  —  I  don't  care  how 
old  Willow  is,  she  looked  young  enough  to- 
day! —  and  given  her  crimson  roses?" 

"I'd  have  given  her  sweet  peas.    I  don't  care 

[143] 


Refractory  Husbands 


for  red  roses,"  said  Mr.  Bannard  coolly,  and 
then  sat  up  straight.  "Lucia!  Can't  you  ever 
take  a  joke?  " 

The  prospect  of  having  Mr.  Bassenden  at 
Lucia's  Thursday  evening  —  he  was  to  leave 
the  next  day  for  the  scene  of  his  marriage  — 
gave  it  immense  prestige.  The  men  were 
careful  that  the  business  exigencies  of  the 
last  of  the  month  shouldn't  keep  them  away, 
and  every  woman  felt  that  she  had  some- 
thing, particularly,  to  say  to  him  in  connec- 
tion with  their  last  meeting.  Elinor  Chandor 
had  formulated  a  long  conversation  on  music, 
beginning  with:  "I  noticed  that  you  were 
fond  of  Scotch  songs,  Mr.  Bassenden."  Gentle, 
quiet  Mrs.  Iverson  had  an  anecdote  of  her 
son's  college  days  that  she  knew  it  would 
please  him  to  hear;  even  Lucia  Bannard  found 
herself  murmuring  in  imagination:  "When  you 
were  speaking  to  me  of  Oberammergau,  Mr. 
Bassenden,  I  forgot  to  say  .  .  ." 

His  coming  had  been  a  rival  to  the  sub- 
ject of  Willow,  about  whom  everybody  was 
in  despair.  It  was  whispered  that  not  only 
was  she  not  smiling  on  Mr.  Porch,  but  that 
she  had  been  seen  around  with  Mr.  Bassen- 
den. Every  one  felt  somehow  responsible  for 
her  indelicately  hanging  on  his  kindness  in 
this  way.  "For  he  can't  like  it,"  Mrs.  Bantry 

[H4] 


Marrying  Willow 


feelingly  argued.  "I  think  somebody  ought 
to  tell  her  not  to.  For  all  her  quietness  there's 
always  been  something  in  Willow  that  you 
couldn't  explain." 

All  day  the  kitchen  of  the  house  of  enter- 
tainment had  been  in  a  turmoil.  Lucia,  hear- 
ing her  husband  come  in  late  —  he  had  dined 
in  town  with  Mr.  Bassenden  —  rushed  down 
to  meet  him  with  her  tale  of  woe. 

"I  thought  you  said  she  began  so  nicely 
yesterday/'  he  objected,  hat  in  hand. 

"I  did  —  but  it's  all  beginning!  The  poor 
thing  doesn't  get  anywhere;  she  doesn't  know 
how.  She's  rolling  her  pie  crust  still  with  that 
composed  air,  while  her  fingers  are  trembling 
and  there's  a  red  spot  in  each  cheek.  She 
won't  get  any  chance  to  play  cards  this  even- 
ing! and  she's  only  made  half  enough  of  the 
chicken  salad,  and  we've  had  to  get  the  cake 
from  the  baker's!  Ellen  helped  her  all  she 
could,  but  the  baby  has  kept  me  so  tied  down 
all  day  I  couldn't  do  a  thing.  Of  course  it 
puts  me  in  a  dreadful  position!  No,  don't 
take  off  your  overcoat.  I  want  you  to  go 
for  two  bottles  of  milk.  Willow  forgot  to 
order  it." 

"Milk!" 

"Yes,  you  can  get  it  at  Lester's,  around 
the  corner  from  Main  Street;  the  little  grocery 
that  is  always  open." 


Refractory  Husbands 


"All  right.  Perhaps  you  didn't  notice  Bas- 
senden's  here." 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Bannard,"  said  Mr. 
Bassenden  coming  forward.  He  looked  hand- 
somer and  more  wonderful  than  ever  in  his  fur 
overcoat,  standing  there  tall  and  imposing, 
his  thick,  dark  hair  over  his  white  forehead,  and 
his  brilliant  dark  eyes  smiling  down  at  her. 
"Let  me  go  for  the  milk.  I  have  the  car  here. 
Mr.  Bannard,  I  know,  has  to  dress." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Bassenden!"  breathed  Lucia,  all 
aglow.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  might  have 
been  a  relation. 

"But  before  I  go  I'll  ask  you  to  take  these." 
He  went  down  the  hall  and  brought  back  a 
couple  of  boxes.  "Just  a  few  roses  for  you, 
and  violets  for  Miss  Walters.  She's  helping 
you  to-night,  I  understand.  At  the  corner  of 
Main  Street,  you  said?  I'll  be  back  in  a  few 
minutes." 

Violets  for  Willow!  In  the  midst  of  her 
own  pleasure  Lucia  hadn't  time  to  analyze 
the  shock  the  words  gave  her,  or  do  more 
than  take  note,  for  future  reference,  of  Wil- 
low's downcast  eyes.  Before  she  knew  they 
were  upon  her,  the  guests  had  arrived  —  Mr. 
Hooker,  a  small,  fattish  gentleman  with  glis- 
tening shirt  front  and  a  black  eyeglass  ribbon, 
being  all  too  evidently  brought  by  the  lure  of 
food;  complimentary  reminiscences  of  the  lob- 


Marrying  Willow 


ster  once  eaten  under  that  roof  forming  part 
of  his  first  greeting  to  Lucia. 

Everybody  came  at  once.  Even  Mr.  Iverson, 
who  seldom  left  his  own  home  in  the  evening, 
escorted  his  wife.  The  sight  of  Mr.  Bassen- 
den's  fur  coat  on  the  rack  in  the  hall  seemed  a 
delightful  earnest  of  pleasure.  There  was  an 
unusual  rustling  and  preening  in  the  dressing- 
room,  where  the  cloaks  and  wraps  were  piled 
on  the  pink  and  lacy  spare  bed,  before  going 
down  to  meet  the  distinguished  guest;  Mrs. 
Bantry  waiting  with  officious  patience  and  a 
bitter  smile  for  a  chance  to  see  her  stout,  newly 
corseted  figure  in  the  mirror  before  which  all 
the  women  were  dabbing  on  powder  and 
instantly  wiping  it  off  again.  The  tide  of 
excitement  was  running  high. 

Yet  from  the  first  moment  when,  hastening 
downstairs,  they  caught  sight  of  Mr.  Bassenden 
talking  to  a  group  of  men  in  the  hall  below, 
there  was  felt  to  be  a  vague,  indefinable,  but 
disappointing  lack  in  him,  though  he  was  as 
royal  looking  and  dominant  as  ever.  He  came 
forward  with  instant  politeness,  to  be  sure,  but 
there  was  no  warmth,  no  individuality  in  his 
greeting;  it  was,  as  Elinor  Chandor  said,  as  if 
he  were  meeting  you  for  the  first  time;  and  he 
returned  at  once  to  the  group  of  men,  who  were 
talking  of  the  Senate,  or  the  Market,  or  Polit- 
ical Corruption,  with  the  tiresome  oblivious- 


Refractory  Husbands 


ness  which  men  show  when  they  get  on  those 
subjects.  Only  whenever  Lucia  came  into 
view,  with  a  distracted  face,  he  always  saw  her 
at  once;  starting  up  to  go  to  her,  and  occasionally 
following  her  out  of  the  room;  they  consulted 
together  with  that  intimacy  which  is  so  satis- 
fying to  the  participants  and  which  leaves 
everybody  else  on  the  outside.  Mrs.  Bantry, 
indeed,  was  so  fortunate  as  to  find  herself  later 
alone  by  him  for  a  moment,  but  when  she  said, 
with  tremulous  sprightliness,  referring  to  their 
former  conversation: 

"This  is  indeed  no  night  for  spirits  to  be 
abroad,"  he  had  only  replied,  "I  beg  your 
pardon?"  as  if  recalling  his  wandering  thoughts, 
and  added,  "Yes,  I  think  the  fog  has  lifted." 

Afterward,  instead  of  taking  his  allotted 
place  at  the  card  table  with  Mrs.  Bantry 
and  Elinor  Chandor,  he  dropped  into  a  chair 
by  Mr.  Iverson  —  to  whom  he  had  been  heard 
talking,  apparently,  about  his  wedding  next 
week  —  at  a  table  over  near  the  door,  with  old 
Mrs.  Crandall  in  her  black  banded  hair  and 
black  chenille  shawl  —  who  wasn't  meant  to 
come  —  and  pretty,  quiet  Mrs.  Paxton,  the 
only  woman  in  the  Club  who  had  evinced  no 
interest  in  him  at  all.  He  laughingly  declined 
to  change  his  position  when  the  mistake  was 
pointed  out  to  him.  It  was  very  disappointing! 

A    singular    atmosphere    seemed    to    settle 


Marrying  Willow 


down.  With  all  the  soft  lights  in  the  yel- 
low and  mahogany-furnished  room,  the  flowers, 
the  pretty  dresses,  the  air  of  general  festivity, 
there  was  a  pervading  sense  of  stress  behind 
the  scenes.  There  were  rumours  that  Willow 
was  doing  very  badly. 

It  became  one  of  those  blank  evenings  of 
entertainment  whose  parts  have  no  cohesion; 
one  might  as  well  be  out  on  a  snowbank  for 
all  the  social  warmth  evolved. 

Lucia  kept  going  out  and  coming  back  with 
a  still  more  distracted  expression.  Once  there 
was  a  horrid  smell  of  burning  milk.  She  called 
her  husband  to  her,  and  he  disappeared,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders  as  he  returned. 

"  Looks  as  if  we  wouldn't  get  much  to  eat 
to-night/'  he  suggested.  "The  oysters  seem 
to  have  burned  up,  and  the  ice-cream  is  full  of 
salt.  I  bid  one  on  hearts." 

Mr.  Hooker  had  a  bitter  smile,  as  one  lured 
out  under  false  pretences. 

"If  Lucia  had  asked  my  advice,"  said  old 
Mrs.  Crandall  to  the  guest  of  the  evening, 
while  the  cards  were  being  shuffled,  "she  would 
never  have  placed  any  dependence  on  Willow 
Walters.  She  is  a  very  sweet  woman,  but  she 
is  incompetent  in  every  way;  my  daughter-in- 
law  finds  it  impossible  to  help  her.  The  best 
thing  for  her  to  do  is  to  marry  Mr.  Henry 
Porch.  His  mother  keeps  the  house." 

[H9] 


Refractory  Husbands 


"Ah,  too  bad,  too  bad,''  said  Mr.  Iverson. 
44 1  understand  Willow's  cottage  is  to  be  torn 
down  next  week,  to  make  room  for  the  street." 
He  added,  in  explanation  to  Mr.  Bassenden. 
"Hard  time  she  has  to  get  along,  poor  girl; 
she  needs  some  one  to  look  after  her.  Hah! 
Something  dropped  in  the  kitchen!  It  sounded 
like  Hendrik  Hudson's  bowling  ground." 

"I  play  before  you  put  your  hand  down,  Mr. 
Bassenden,"  stated  Mrs.  Paxton  remindingly. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Bassenden.  He 
waited  with  a  visible  effort  while  the  lady 
studied  her  resources,  and  then,  laying  his 
cards  on  the  table  for  dummy  with  one  com- 
prehensive swoop,  dashed  out  to  Lucia  Bannard 
in  the  hall,  and  disappeared  with  her  in  the 
regions  beyond. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  was  seen  emerging 
into  the  dining-room,  carrying  a  large  dish 
of  apples  and  oranges  in  his  steady  hands, 
with  Willow  Walters'  slender  white-aproned 
figure  beside  him.  Her  ordinarily  pale  cheeks 
were  pink,  her  eyes,  as  she  raised  them,  had 
their  pathetically  helpless  look.  The  impetus  of 
their  conversation  still  carried  them;  he  was 
leaning  toward  her  and  she  toward  him  —  there 
was  something  in  the  manner  of  both  that  inde- 
finably startled,  before  the  two  vanished  once 
more.  A  few  minutes  later  a  chug-chug  was 
heard  by  the  card-players,  and  the  lights  of  a 

[ISO] 


Marrying  Willow 


motor  flashed  past  a  window  that  had  been 
slightly  raised  for  the  air. 

"Where's  Mr.  Bassenden?  Isn't  he  coming 
back?"  asked  Mrs.  Paxton. 

"  Why,  he  asked  if  we'd  excuse  him  for  a  half- 
hour,"  said  Mr.  Bannard  with  what  seemed 
to  be  a  mixture  of  embarrassment  and  jaunti- 
ness.  "He  —  he's  gone  out  in  the  car  for 
a  few  minutes.  The  fact  is  —  he's  taking 
Willow  —  Miss  Walters  • — out  for  a  spin;  the 
heat  in  the  kitchen  has  been  a  little  too  much 
for  her." 

Old  Mrs.  Crandall  sniffed.  "Why,  that's 
very  kind  of  him,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bantry 
wonderingly.  "Very."  She  fell  to  playing 
cards  with  an  air  of  detachment  from  her 
surroundings  that  became  noticeable  also  in 
the  manner  of  the  other  women.  Mr.  Bas- 
senden, the  star  of  the  occasion,  had  been  un- 
warrantably removed  from  them  by  Willow! 
And  on  this  last  night  of  his  stay!  That 
mysteriousness  that  had  always  been  felt  in  her 
seemed  to  have  come  suddenly  to  the  fore. 

And  they  were  gone  for  a  long  time.     .    .    . 

"I  suppose  she  appealed  to  his  sympathies, 
and  he  couldn't  refuse,"  murmured  Nell  Cran- 
dall to  Mrs.  Bantry,  as  the  game  at  last  wore 
to  a  close.  The  men  and  women  separated 
into  two  sections  while  they  waited  for  supper, 
if  there  were  indeed  to  be  any. 

[151] 


Refractory  Husbands 


"I  think  it  extremely  tactless  of  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Bantry. 

Old  Mrs.  Crandall  sniffed  again.  "I  have 
always  observed  something  in  Willow  —  I 
can't  exactly  explain  what  it  is,  that " 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen  and  fellow-citizens," 
proclaimed  Mr.  Bannard,  entering  suddenly, 
"I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you  that  our 
own  supper  being  unfortunately  not  eatable, 
our  distinguished  guest,  Mr.  Bassenden,  has 
returned  to  say  that  he  has  been  making  arrange- 
ments to  have  one  imported  from  town,  and  that 
it  will  be  here  in  half  an  hour.  He  wants  this 
to  be  his  party,  as  he  is  leaving  to-morrow.  In 
the  meantime,  would  you  like  to  take  a  look 
at  the  moon?  It's  grand!  Throw  something 
around  you  all  and  come  out!" 

Laughing  and  talking,  even  the  morose 
Mr.  Hooker,  inspired  by  this  unexpected 
lift  to  the  occasion,  the  party  trooped  out- 
side on  the  hard  ground  that  lay  frozen  in 
an  atmosphere  so  windless  that  the  air  seemed 
benignantly  soft  and  mild.  The  beauty  of  the 
moonlit  scene,  incomparably  bright,  stole  into 
the  senses,  so  that  after  a  moment  voices  were 
hushed;  they  all  stood  silent,  looking  at  it. 
All  of  a  sudden  some  one,  turning  toward  the 
house,  uttered  a  shocked  exclamation.  Every- 
body turned  to  look  that  way. 

The  shade  had  been  drawn  up  from  the  kitchen 


Marrying  Willow 


window.  Within,  Mr.  Bassenden  stood  with 
Willow,  the  light  fell  on  both  faces.  His 
handsome  head  was  bending  over  her,  his  face 
all  tenderness,  as  he  stood  a  little  apart  from 
her;  he  held  her  two  hands  in  his,  drawing 
her  to  him.  But  Willow!  Was  this  the  pale, 
colourless  girl  they  had  all  known,  this  slender, 
spiritlike,  exquisitely  beautiful  creature,  with 
the  violets  at  her  bosom,  her  eyes  starry,  her  lips 
parted,  her  cheeks  rosed  with  an  immortal 

flame?    There  was  a  moment 

with  one  impulse  everybody  turned  away  and 
tiptoed  into  the  house,  only  Mr.  Iverson  break- 
ing the  silence  to  say  musingly: 

"Odd,  the  mistake  I  made  about  Bassen- 
den's  marriage.  I  am  a  little  hard  of  hearing. 
He  was  explaining  to  me  to-night  that  it  is  his 
brother  Arthur  who  is  to  be  married  next  week!" 

"Well,  she  certainly  landed  on  both  feet," 
said  Donald  Bannard  the  following  spring. 
He  and  Lucia  had  been  at  the  opera  the  night 
before,  occupying  a  box  as  the  guests  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Bassenden,  just  on  a  visit  from  Denver. 
''Did  you  twig  the  rope  of  pearls,  and  the 
white  satin  and  the  opera  cloak?  She's  a 
beauty,  and  he  can't  keep  his  eyes  off  her. 
It's  a  wonderful  match;  and  to  think  I  made  it, 
after  all  you  women  had  given  up!" 

"You!"  scoffed  his  wife,  indignantly. 

[153] 


Thursday 


Thursday 

|O,  MRS.  BRADY,  I'm  afraid  you 
can't  clean  Mr.  Laurence's  room  this 
next  Thursday;  the  Thursday  after 
that  he  goes  off  on  his  fishing  trip,  and  we'll 
get  at  it  then." 

"It's  t'ree  weeks  to-day,  ma'am,  since  it 
was  done  t'orough." 

"Yes,  I  know."  Mrs.  Laurence,  hatted  and 
cloaked  as  she  was  on  her  return  from  town,  was 
still  in  all  the  glow  of  wonderment  at  an  extra- 
ordinary happening  there  occasioned  by  the 
merest  chance;  she  had  been  thinking  of  it  all 
the  way  out  in  the  train,  and  it  seemed  a  little 
difficult  to  adjust  herself  to  those  needs  of  the 
household  which  always  rose  up  and  smote  her 
the  moment  she  entered  it.  On  her  way  up- 
stairs she  had  already  telephoned  for  extra 
milk,  changed  perforce  the  order  for  dinner, 
and  sent  her  eleven-year-old  son  Robert  on 
that  belated  errand  to  the  post-office  to  which 
he  had  daily  to  have  insistent  reminder.  She 
stood  now  irresolutely  in  the  doorway  of  her 
husband's  den,  so-called,  strewn  from  end  to 

[157] 


Refractory  Husbands 


end  Hvith  fishing  paraphernalia;  her  eyes  wan- 
dering over  the  groups  of  linen-cased  rods 
stacked  in  the  corners  or  on  the  lounge  —  he 
was  always  adding  an  absolutely  necessary  one 
to  that  overflowing,  unusable  stock  —  the  blan- 
ketlike  coat  hanging  over  the  back  of  a  chair, 
the  seven-league  waterproof  boots  sprawling 
their  astounding  length  over  by  the  window,  the 
immense  green-japanned  bait-pail  in  the  centre 
of  the  floor,  and  the  table,  on  which,  in  the 
midst  of  a  toppling  pile  of  magazines,  a  large 
and  gorgeous  leather  tackle-box  was  surrounded 
by  a  bulging  mass  of  reels,  fly-books,  green  and 
red  floats,  matches  and  cigar  stands,  all  covered 
with  a  light  layer  of  dust  on  the  edges;  it 
was  as  much  as  even  Mrs.  Laurence's  life  was 
worth  to  displace  any  article  on  that  table. 

But  she  repeated  firmly:  "We'll  get  at  it 
the  Thursday  following;  I've  just  invited  com- 
pany for  this  Thursday,  anyway,"  and  turned 
away  with  a  sigh  after  paying  the  worker,  going 
into  her  own  room  to  change  before  her  hus- 
band's homecoming;  that  unkempt  den  was 
the  visible  manifestation  of  a  problem  that 
seemed  to  have  come  to  stay.  For  twelve 
years  she  and  her  husband  had  shared  all  their 
pleasures;  they  stayed  home  or  went  out  in  the 
evenings  together,  and  by  an  unworded  compact 
neither  had  ever  left  the  other  for  a  vacation. 
He  had  never  wanted  to  do  anything  away  from 


Thursday 

her;  it  was  she  who  suggested  their  pleasures; 
she  had  felt  herself  the  Dispenser  of  all  Delights. 
It  had  become  a  pleasantly  scoffing,  half- 
envious  habit  of  other  women  to  say  to  her: 

"Oh,  you  and  your  husband  are  so  devoted  I" 
And  now  just  this  last  year,  without  any  warning 
he  had,  in  connection  with  a  Mr.  Wynkoop,  a 
business  friend  unknown  to  her,  developed  a 
passion  for  fishing  that  threatened  to  push 
her  entirely  out  of  his  horizon.  He  had  not 
only  gone  off  five  times  altogether  without  her 
last  summer,  but  for  the  last  four  months  he 
had  done  nothing  but  talk  about  his  three 
days'  trip  in  May  to  a  secret  trout-stream  in 
another  state.  Mrs.  Laurence,  true  to  her 
cult,  had  spent  their  evenings  at  home  up  in 
the  den,  while  he  fingered  his  beloved  fishing 
gear  with  shining  eyes;  but  even  with  her 
utmost  efforts  at  sympathetic  attention  her  mind 
was  apt  to  wander  dreadfully,  so  that  her 
would-be  intelligent  comments  were  strikingly 
the  reverse,  requiring  incredibly  patient  further 
explanations  from  her  husband  —  he  never 
balked  at  explaining.  She  could  never  re- 
member which  kind  of  rod  was  used  for  which 
kind  of  fish.  The  only  time  that  he  had  ever 
really  shown  annoyance  was  when  she  persisted 
in  speaking  to  guests  of  his  sacred  four-pound 
trout,  stretched  out  on  a  board  upstairs,  as 
"That  bass  Will  was  so  crazy  about  catching ;" 

[159] ' 


Refractory  Husbands 


he  seemed  to  really  brood  over  that,  in  a  way 
that  wasn't  like  himself. 

Lately  he  hadn't  even  needed  her  society, 
importing  into  the  den  no  less  a  person  than 
the  village  carpenter,  a  long,  lanky,  soft-stepped 
man  of  immense  experience  in  fishing,  to  whose 
words  Will  listened  as  they  dropped  from  his 
lips  as  if  they  were  pearls,  while  she  practised 
lonesomely  on  the  piano  downstairs.  The  fish- 
ing had  also  made  trouble  in  her  well-ordered 
household  last  summer,  by  his  bringing  home 
live  bait  and  insisting  on  its  being  preserved  in 
the  laundry  wash-tubs  without  reference  to  the 
exigencies  of  the  family  wash;  even  without  that 
grievance  the  faithful  Ellen  had  complained 
that  "all  thim  little  weeny  fishes  slippin'  round 
that  ghostly  when  she  went  into  the  cellar  at 
night,  took  all  the  stomach  from  her."  Mrs. 
Laurence  felt  that  she  could  hardly  wait  until 
this  phase  was  over,  and  everything  be  as  it 
always  had  been  before,  forgetting  that  Time 
never  goes  backward,  any  more  than  water  runs 
uphill. 

"May  I  come  up?" 

The  voice  was  that  of  a  neighbour,  Mrs. 
Stone.  Mrs.  Stone  had  a  way  of  following 
her  voice  at  once,  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
that  was  sometimes  disconcerting.  Mrs.  Lau- 
rence gave  a  wild  look  around  the  room  as  she 

[160] 


Thursday 

hastily  snatched  up  an  enshrouding  kimono 
that  tangled  for  the  moment  and  wouldn't 
go  on  without  a  struggle,  as  the  figure  of  the 
visitor  appeared  on  the  threshold.  Mrs.  Stone 
was  a  large  woman  of  matronly  build,  dressed 
in  a  very  much  starched  and  shrunken  last 
year's  white  duck  skirt,  and  a  shirt-waist, 
partially  covered  by  a  gray  ulster  buttoned  at 
the  neck  with  empty  sleeves  hanging  limply 
down  at  the  sides.  She  sat  down  on  the  nearest 
chair,  saying  as  she  did  so,  with  a  comprehensive 
glance  around  the  room: 

"You  don't  mind  me,  I  hope.  Goodness, 
you  don't  mean  to  say  you've  taken  off  your 
high-necked  flannels  already!" 

"I  never  wear  them,"  said  Mrs.  Laurence 
hastily. 

"  Oh !  How  the  dust  does  show  on  everything, 
doesn't  it  at  this  time  of  year?  I've  been 
cleaning  all  day.  That  rug  by  your  dressing- 
table  hasn't  worn  very  well,  has  it?  " 

Mrs.  Stone  paused  momentarily,  and  then 
went  on,  this  time  as  one  with  a  purpose: 

"I  saw  you  coming  back  from  town,  and  I 
thought  I'd  run  over,  just  for  a  moment. 
Mrs.  Budd  and  I  have  been  at  the  Spicers'. 
Poor  little  Mrs.  Spicer  is  all  worked  up  —  you 
know  how  nervous  she  is!  It's  about  your 
Robert.  Mrs.  Laurence,  is  his  father  going  to 
let  him  have  a  gun  for  his  birthday?" 
[161] 


Refractory  Husbands 


"Why,  certainly  not/'  said  Mrs.  Laurence, 
with  decision. 

Mrs.  Stone's  tragic  countenance  only  slightly 
relaxed. 

"Well,  Robert  has  been  telling  all  over  the 
neighbourhood  —  goodness,  you  used  to  have 
such  an  enormous  braid!  Hair  comes  out  so 
in  the  spring,  doesn't  it?  /  won't  have  a  spear 
left  soon!  Well,  Robert  is  telling  all  over  the 
neighbourhood  that  he's  to  have  a  gun  for 
his  birthday;  he  points  sticks  now  at  all  the 
children  and  pretends  to  pull  a  trigger,  and  you 
can  see  yourself,  Mrs.  Laurence,  what  that 
will  lead  to!  Poor  little  Gladys  Spicer  nearly 
had  a  fit  the  other  day  because  he  told  her  that 
she  was  dead,  and  Gladys  Spicer's  nurse  heard 
him  say  that  next  week  he  was  going  to  shoot 
the  grocer's  white  horse.  Mrs.  Laurence,  that 
boy  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  have  a  gun." 

"He  isn't  going  to  have  one."  Mrs. Laurence's 
colour  rose  with  her  voice,  as  she  strove  to  hook 
the  back  of  her  gown  with  trembling  fingers. 
"If  Robert  said  anything  of  the  kind,  he  was 
just  imagining  —  playing,  as  a  child  will.  But, 
of  course,  if  you  take  everything  seriously  that 
you  hear  from  that  Gladys  Spicer  and  her  nurse ! 
Whatever  Robert's  other  faults  may  be  he  is  u 
perfectly  truthful  child!" 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Stone,  with  eyes  that 
seemed  to  take  on  a  blank,  veiled  expression; 

[162] 


Thursday 

as  the  mother  of  four  she  was  perhaps  less 
given  to  a  wholesale  belief  in  virtue.  She 
politely  swerved  from  the  subject  as  one  who 
sees  danger  below  it.  "Was  it  pleasant  in  town 
to-day?" 

"Yes,  very/'  answered  Mrs.  Laurence,  sitting 
down  at  last  in  the  long  draperies  of  her  rose- 
coloured  gown  to  buckle  the  beaded  slippers  on 
her  pretty  feet,  with  a  remorseful  effort  to 
recover  her  hospitable  spirit.  She  had  that 
kind  of  lofty,  sweet  purpose  with  which  one 
may  inform  one's  life,  no  matter  how  small  that 
life's  environment;  was  not  one  of  Raphael's 
most  famous  Holy  Families  painted  within 
the  limits  of  a  barrel  hoop?  She  was  always, 
through  all  her  deeply  trivial  excitements, 
seeking  her  rightful  connection  with  high  things. 
"I  saw  such  a  lovely  hat  for  your  Susan  in  one 
of  the  shops!  I'll  help  you  make  one  later,  if 
you  like.  And  the  most  unexpected  thing 
happened  to  me!  There,  right  on  the  corner 
by  the  Flatiron  Building,  I  met  some  people 
from  California  that  I  hadn't  seen  for  six  years 
-  friends  of  Mr.  Laurence's  —  the  Von  Rosens." 

"Oh,  that  German  family  he  lived  with 
before  he  was  married?" 

"Yes,  the  same  people.  I've  only  met 
them  that  time  before,  but  of  course  I've 
heard  of  them  so  much  from  William.  It  was 
impossible  to  mistake  them;  the  only  change 

[  163  ] 


Refractory  Husbands 


I  could  see  was  that  Mrs.  Von  Rosen  looked 
even  fatter  and  rosier,  and  the  two  daughters, 
Amelia  and  Ida — -they  pronounce  it  E-da — are 
thinner  and  yellower.  They  are  such  warm- 
hearted people  —  I  was  almost  embarrassed, 
right  there  in  the  street.  Shall  we  go  down- 
stairs now?  They  are  going  on  to  Philadelphia 
this  evening,  but  they  promised  to  stop  off 
here  to  dinner  on  their  way  back  to  town  on 
Thursday;  they  leave  for  California  the  next 
day.  I  knew  Will  would  be  so  disappointed 
if  he  didn't  see  them." 

Mrs.  Stone  stared  inexplicably.  "Why,  I 
thought  Mr.  Laurence  told  my  husband  he  was 
going  fishing  on  Thursday?" 

"He  is  going  in  May." 

" But  this  is  May!" 

"Yes,  of  course  it  is  —  I'm  so  absent-minded! 
But  it's  next  week  that  he  goes  fishing." 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Stone.  She  hastened  to 
offer  her  neighbourly  services.  "If  you'd  like 
my  recipe  for  lobster  bisque  you  can  have  it  as 
well  as  not." 

It  was  an  understood  thing  on  the  Ridge 
that  Company  from  Town  had  its  own  laws, 
the  neighbourhood  delicately  effacing  itself  in 
these  occasions  without  hint  of  offence,  sharing 
indeed  opulently  in  the  calculations  before- 
hand, and  the  conversation  about  it  afterward, 
although  not  bidden  to  the  feast. 


Thursday 

The  sight  of  the  curly-haired  and  rosy- 
cheeked  Robert,  in  his  brown  corduroy  knick- 
erbockers, cap  in  hand,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
incited  to  further  beneficence.  "And  why 
don't  you  let  Robert  come  over  to  our  house 
to  dinner  that  night?  It  will  be  one  out  of 
the  way." 

"Well,  thank  you,  I'll  see,"  said  Mrs.  Lau- 
rence, tentative  response  in  her  voice,  before 
turning  to  her  only  child. 

"Did  you  go  to  the  post-office,  Robert,  as  I 
told  you?" 

"Yes." 

"I  saw  him  there,  as  I  came  along,"  corrobor- 
ated Mrs.  Stone  nicely. 

"And  did  I  get  any  letters?" 

Robert's  dark  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  ear- 
nestly. 

"Did  I  get  any  letters,  Robert?" 

"No.  No,  mother.  May  I  go  to  Herbert's 
now?" 

"Wash  your  face  and  hands  before  you  go." 
Mrs.  Laurence  said  the  last  words  automatically 
before  turning  once  more  to  the  guest.  "Really, 
I  think  some  one  ought  to  complain  at  Washing- 
ton of  the  postal  service.  Just  because  we 
have  nothing  but  a  little  branch  post-office 
here  on  the  Ridge,  half  the  time  we  don't  get 
our  letters.  My  sister  sent  me  two  last  month 
that  I  never  received  at  all." 

[165] 


Refractory  Husbands 


"Yes,  it's  dreadful,"  agreed  Mrs.  Stone. 
It  was  the  thing  to  complain  of  the  postal 
service  in  the  small  outlying  residential  section 
that  made  the  Ridge.  "Mrs.  Spicer  got 
a  letter  back  from  the  Dead  Letter  Office 
only  this  last  week.  To  be  sure,  it  was  mis- 
directed, but  the  principle's  the  same.  Good- 
ness, here's  Mr.  Laurence.  I  didn't  expect 
to  be  here  when  he  came  home!"  She  hastily 
gathered  her  ulster  about  her.  "I  see  you've 
brought  home  a  new  landing  net.  How  does 
your  wife  like  your  going  off  fishing  so  much?  " 

"Oh,  she's  as  interested  in  it  as  I  am,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Laurence,  mistakenly,  taking  off 
his  hat  to  the  departing  guest,  before  stooping 
over  to  kiss  his  wife.  He  was  a  tall,  dark  man  of 
whose  distinguished  appearance  she  was  proud. 

n 

It  was  not  until  the  evening  meal  was  com- 
fortably under  way  that  Mrs.  Laurence  artisti- 
cally brought  forward  the  subject  of  engrossing 
interest. 

"Whom  do  you  think  I  met  in  town  to-day? 
You'd  never  guess." 

"Then  you'd  better  teU  me." 

"Well,  it  was  the  Von  Rosens  —  actually, 
the  whole  three  of  them!  What  do  you  say  to 
that?" 

[166] 


Thursday 

"Ida  must  be  getting  on  by  this  time/' 
said  Mr.  Laurence  with  unconscious  tact. 

His  wife  had  always  suspected  Ida  of  a  weak- 
ness for  Will  in  those  days  when  she  herself 
had  been  a  stranger  to  him. 

"Oh,  well,  I  think  she  looks  about  the  same/' 
said  his  wife  generously.  "They  overwhelmed 
me  with  questions  about  you.  I  knew  you'd  be 
heartbroken  if  you  didn't  see  them.  They  go 
to  Philadelphia  this  afternoon! " — she  explained 
their  plans  at  length,  as  she  had  to  Mrs.  Stone 
—  "so  they  will  stop  off  at  the  station  below, 
on  the  main  road  and  come  out  here  to  dinner." 

"That  will  be  nice,"  said  her  husband.  "  What 
night  did  you  say?  " 

"Thursday." 

"Wh-a-a-t?" 

Mr.  Laurence  dropped  his  knife  and  fork  with 
a  clatter  on  his  plate,  and  looked  with  horrified 
incredulousness  at  his  wife.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say  you've  asked  them  for  this  Thursday?  " 

Mrs.  Laurence's  colour  rose.  "Don't  be 
so  —  forcible,  Will.  Why  shouldn't  I  ask  them 
for  Thursday?" 

"Because  that's  the  day  I  want  to  go  fishing. 
Great  Scott,  Nan,  I've  been  planning  this 
trip  ever  since  Thanksgiving,  and  you  go  and 
ask  people  out  to  dinner.  I  can't  understand 
it.  Why  you  should  have  pitched  on  that 
night  of  all  others  when  you  knew !" 

[167] 


Refractory  Husbands 


Tears  of  vexation  came  into  Mrs.  Laurence's 
eyes. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  speak  like  that.  You' ve 
been  talking  so  long  about  this  old  trip  that  it's 
no  wonder  I  got  mixed  up;  I  thought  it  was  the 
next  Thursday,  of  course." 

She  paused  an  instant  to  gather  her  forces. 
"Can't  you  be  here  to  dinner  that  night,  and 
go  on  to  join  the  others  the  next  day?" 

"Go  on  the  next  day!"  Mr.  Laurence  laughed 
shortly.  "Do  you  realize,  Anna,  that  even 
starting  at  seven  o'clock  Thursday  evening 
we  don't  get  to  the  lodge  on  the  Susquehanna 
until  the  middle  of  the  next  morning?  We 
have  to  stay  all  night  in  a  little  tavern  beyond 
Coalberg.  We  had  to  write  last  week  to  have  a 
rig  meet  us.  We'll  only  have  two  days'  fish- 
ing as  it  is;  you  know  very  well  that  I  have 
to  get  home  Sunday  night." 

The  mere  recounting  of  the  plan  served  to 
bring  back  the  accustomed  tone  to  his  voice. 
"You'll  have  to  just  send  word  to  the  Von 
Rosens  to  come  some  other  time." 

"But  William!"  Mrs.  Laurence  looked  out- 
raged now  in  her  turn.  "I  can't  do  that,  pos- 
sibly; I  told  you  just  now  that  they'd  gone  to 
Philadelphia  —  /  don't  know  where  they're 
stopping!" 

"Well!"  Mr.  Laurence  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
[168] 


Thursday 

"It's  all  your  own  doing.  I  certainly  have 
given  you  warning  enough.  You'll  have  to 
make  my  excuses,  and  entertain  them  yourself, 
that's  all." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  will  go 
away  when  the  Von  Rosens  are  coming?" 
Mrs.  Laurence  regarded  her  husband  with 
unfeigned  horror.  "Why,  they're  taking  all 
this  trouble  to  see  you  —  they  don't  care  for 
me!  The  time  I  met  them  we  hadn't  a  thing 
in  common;  they  bored  me  to  extinction. 
They're  your  friends."  She  gave  a  gulp  that 
might  have  been  a  sob.  No  one  knew  how 
heartfully  noble  it  had  been  of  her  to  behave 
so  nicely  to  them.  "And  I  must  say,  Will,  that 
if  you  can  forget  all  they  did  for  you  —  you 
have  so  often  told  me  that  Mrs.  Von  Rosen 
really  saved  your  life  when  you  were  ill  out 
there,  bringing  you  broth  in  the  middle  of  the 

night,  even "  her  voice  trembled  with  the 

pathos  of  the  situation.  "And  Amelia  reading 
to  you  day  after  day  when  your  eyes  gave  out  — 
if  you  can't  even  give  up  such  a  little  thing  as 
this  fishing  trip  for  them  now " 

Such  a  little  thing  as  the  fishing  trip ! 

The  two  sat  there  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
table,  lightened  by  its  yellow  daffodils.  Before 
Mr.  Laurence's  vision  came  the  irresponsible, 
free,  jolly  companionship  of  the  train  journey, 
when  one  began  insensibly  to  leave  all  burdens 

[169] 


Refractory  Husbands 


behind;  the  smell  of  the  wood  smoke  in  the 
hospitable,  far  tavern  of  the  night;  the  mighty 
breakfast  eaten  at  dawn;  the  drive  through  the 
pine-scented  woods  to  a  certain  joy;  he  saw 
the  tall,  lush  grass  on  either  side  of  the  narrow 
brown  stream,  with  bare  and  nodding  boughs 
interlaced  slenderly  above,  through  the  deli- 
cious tracery  of  which  arched  a  delicately  blue, 
white-clouded  sky.  He  felt  the  brain-soothing 
peace  that  came  with  the  sounding  swirl  and 
rush  of  that  white-foamed,  cascading  brook; 
the  exhilaration  of  that  needed  rest;  that  inde- 
scribable moment  when  the  leaping  trout  sent 
a  quiver  down  the  length  of  the  rod,  creating  a 
man  over  again  in  an  Eden  that  was  even  more 
perfect  than  the  first  Eden  because  he  didn't 
need  any  Eve.  It  was  all  so  vivid  to  Will 
Laurence  that  he  couldn't  believe  that  his 
wife  didn't  see  it,  too.  The  very  vision  calmed. 

"If  you  can't  send  them  word  not  to  come  — 
I  suppose  you  can't,  though  I  confess  I  don't 
understand  how  you  came  to  get  yourself  in 
such  a  box,  Nan  —  have  a  good  dinner,  anyway; 
Mother  Von  Rosen  knows  one  when  she  sees  it." 

"  Of  course  I'll  have  a  good  dinner;  you  needn't 
tell  me  that,"  said  his  wife,  with  a  feeling 
of  immense  relief.  She  had  known  that  he 
would  have  to  give  up  the  trip  when  he  stopped 
to  think.  With  unusual  tact  for  a  woman 
who  has  gained  her  point  she  forbore  to  press 
[170] 


Thursday 

it  further  home.  But  as  they  left  the  table  she 
asked : 

"Why  don't  you  ever  take  me  fishing  with 
you?  I  met  a  woman  the  other  day  who  said 
that  she  always  went  with  her  husband." 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  like  it,"  said  her  husband 
with  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "It  wouldn't  do 
for  you  at  all." 

"Why  not?" 

He  gave  the  arm  a  tender  pressure. 

"Too  snaky." 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Laurence  with  an  instinc- 
tive shudder,  and  a  horrible  sense  of  dreadful 
slithering  things  slipping  around  her  William's 
legs.  She  was  glad  that  she  would  escape  the 
thought  of  it  this  week,  at  any  rate. 

They  had  an  engagement  in  town  the  next 
evening,  which  was  Saturday,  and  company  all 
day  Sunday.  When  the  company  had  de- 
parted Robert  had  still  to  be  read  to  exhaustively 
before  going  to  bed,  a  Sunday  night  office  that 
had  lately  torn  Mrs.  Laurence  asunder  in  the 
performance,  her  husband  going  over  to  con- 
sult Mr.  Stone  who  had  once  fished  in  some 
prehistoric  period,  and  not  coming  back  until 
she  was  ready  for  bed  herself.  To-night, 
Robert,  angelic-eyed  and  flushed  on  his  white 
pillow,  kept  her  by  his  bedside  at  least  half  an 
hour  longer,  consulting  her  on  matters  of  the 
soul,  such  as  if  it  was  always  right  if  you  told 

[171] 


Refractory  Husbands 


the  Exact  Truth;  which  only,  after  all,  led  up 
to  an  ungranted  request  not  to  be  sent  to  the 
post-office  any  more  in  the  afternoons,  for  the 
absurd  reason  that  he  didn't  like  to  go  in  the 
doorway;  she  was  obliged  to  define  at  length 
what  a  Duty  was. 

But  to-night  Will  didn't  go  out;  he  was  still 
in  his  own  room  when  she  reached  it. 

"Come  in,"  he  said  hospitably,  clearing  a 
place  for  her  on  the  lounge,  as  she  trailed,  in 
her  pretty  blue  gown  —  Mrs.  Laurence  liked 
pretty  clothes  —  through  the  disorder.  "I'm 
just  trying  to  think  what  I'll  take."  He  in- 
dicated an  immense  pile  on  the  floor  beside  an 
open  suitcase.  "Shoes  take  up  the  most  room, 
of  course,  and  those  boots.  Last  year  I  stuffed 
some  things  in  the  bait-pail,  but  I'm  not  going 
to  take  the  bait-pail.  One  thing  I'm  going  to 

decide  right  now "  he  spoke  with  sudden 

forcefulness,  stalked  forward  and  abstracted 
a  pair  of  trousers  from  the  pile,  and  sent  them 
flying  across  the  room.  "I've  always  taken 
two  pairs  and  I've  never  needed  more  than 
one.  I've  settled  that  question  now  and  forever. 
What's  the  matter,  Nan?" 

Mrs.  Laurence  sat  gazing  up  at  him  with 
startled  eyes.  "What  are  you  making  all  these 
arrangements  now  for?" 

"For  Thursday,  of  course." 

"But  you're  not  going!" 
[172] 


Thursday 

"  Not  going?  What  do  you  mean?  Of  course 
I'm  going!" 

"  But  I  understood "  Mrs.  Laurence  felt 

her  lips  trembling  beyond  her  control.  "You 
told  me  you  would  stay  home  on  account  of  the 
Von  Rosens." 

"You  bet  your  life  I  didn't,"  said  Mr.  Lau- 
rence, emphatically,  roused  to  an  unusual  effort 
of  slang.  "Why,  you're  losing  your  mind, 
Nan ;  I  say  a  thing  like  that?  I  never  considered 
it  for  a  moment!" 

"You  told  me  to  have  a  good  dinner." 

"Of  course  I  did  — that's  all  right.  I'm 
fond  of  old  Mother  Von  Rosen.  It's  too  bad; 
I'd  like  to  see  her,  of  course,  if  it  were  any 
other  time;  but  as  for  saying  I'd  stay  home, 
after  all  the  arrangements  I've  made  with 
Wynkoop  —  no,  not  for  the  Queen  of  Sheba!" 

"Will!"  said  Mrs.  Laurence.  Her  voice 
rose  tragically.  "Then  all  I  can  say  is,  that 
if  your  love  for  sport  makes  you  so  ungrateful, 
if  it  blots  out  everything  but  the  little,  narrow, 
inch-wide  way  of  your  own  pleasure,  so  that 
you  can't  even  give  it  up  to  see  friends  whom  you 
profess  to  love,  to  whom  you  own  yourself 
deeply  indebted,  and  whom  you  may  never 
see  again  in  this  world  —  if  it  makes  you  not 
even  care  for  what  is  right  —  then  I  think 
fishing  is  a  wicked  thing ! " 

"All  right,   then  it  is,"   said  her  husband, 

[173] 


Refractory  Husbands 


with  cold  gaiety.  "I'm  a  thief  and  a  murderer. 
Will  you  just  move  your  foot  for  a  moment? 
There's  a  reel  down  on  the  floor  there.  It's  a 
new  one."  His  voice  insensibly  softened;  he 
smiled  down  at  her.  "Would  you  like  to  see 
how  it  works?" 

"Thank  you,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Laurence  politely. 
She  went  downstairs  and  played  Handel's  Largo 
on  the  piano,  under  the  rose-coloured  lamp, 
amidst  the  pretty  artistic  furnishings  of  the 
room,  with  great  care  and  deep  expression, 
that  she  might  feel  how  calm  she  was.  But 
if  he  hadn't  given  up,  she  hadn't,  either.  It 
seemed  to  be  the  deadlock  that  she  had  felt 
imminent  for  so  long.  She  knew,  as  every 
loved  wife  knows,  that  she  could  win  if  she 
descended  to  certain  measures;  if  she  cried  all 
the  time,  for  instance,  so  that  she  threatened  to 
make  herself  ill  —  but  to  that  she  couldn't 
descend.  She  could  not  win  by  an  appeal 
to  the  senses;  she  couldn't  wheedle,  she  couldn't 
coax  —  as  some  women  might  and  whose 
profitable  lightness  she  almost  envied.  When 
it  came  to  a  question  of  right  there  was  a 
certain  sweet  and  truthful  earnestness  in  her, 
that  connection  with  something  high,  which 
wouldn't  let  the  appeal  to  it  rest  on  anything 
lower.  She  had  a  standard,  and  he  loved  her 
for  it.  She  tried  to  see  his  point  of  view  — 
almost  saw  it,  before  it  slipped  predestinedly 

[174] 


Thursday 

away.  Then  she  couldn't  stay  downstairs  any 
longer,  she  must  go  up  where  he  was;  perhaps 
he  had  been  thinking  over  what  she  had  said. 

As  she  reentered  the  room,  he  looked  up 
from  the  tackle-box  to  say: 

"Cheer  up,  Nan,  it'll  be  all  right;  they  won't 
come." 

"Why  do  you  think  that?"  She  had  a 
momentary  gleam  of  hope. 

"Oh,  just  on  general  principles,"  he  answered 
carelessly.  There  were  some  things  which 
even  after  their  closest  communion  of  soul  he 
had  never  told  his  wife;  had  never  even  thought 
of  telling  her. 

He  had  lent  poor  old  Mother  Von  Rosen  a 
rather  large  sum  of  money  years  ago,  which 
she  had  never  been  able  to  repay;  on  that 
last  visit,  six  years  ago,  she  had  agonized  over 
it  when  alone  with  him,  though  he  had  told  her 
he  didn't  care  if  it  was  never  paid.  She  mightn't 
look  on  this  visit  as  lightsomely  as  Nan  sup- 
posed. 

"It's  all  very  well  to  talk  that  way,  but 
they  are  coming;  they  would  have  sent 
word  at  once  if  they  hadn't  been."  Her  voice 
was  very  gentle,  but  clear,  as  if  she  were  speak- 
ing to  Robert.  "Will,  if  you  knew  what  it 
means  to  me  to  have  you  go  on  this  fishing  trip 
now  —  it  isn't  your  going,  it's  what  it  means. 
Dear,  I've  stopped  being  provoked  and  silly, 

[  175  ] 


Refractory  Husbands 


it's  just  your  own  good  I'm  thinking  of  — 
it's  the  way  I've  seen  other  men  deteriorate, 
the  way  I  thought  you  never  could.  I'd  be  a 
poor  kind  of  a  wife  if  I  couldn't  help  you  to 
keep  to  your  highest  self  —  if  I  shrank  from 
telling  you  what  was  the  truth." 

"See  here,  Nan.  Do  you  actually  mean  to 
say  that  you  want  me  to  stay  home?"  asked  Mr. 
Laurence.  His  voice  was  amazed,  incredu- 
lous, as  if  he  heard  her  stupendous  words  for  the 
first  time.  "For,  of  course,  you  know  if  you 
say  the  word,  I  won't  go."  His  outraged  eyes 
fixed  hers,  his  lips  pressed  together,  the  lower 
one  protruding  slightly  over  the  other;  his 
unbending  figure  remained  as  much  a  thing 
apart  from  her  as  if  her  arms  were  not  around 
him.  Twelve  years  of  intimate  married  life 
hadn't  done  away  with  a  certain  subtle  strange- 
ness in  it;  his  wife  had  at  times  an  unexplained 
awe  of  him  as  a  man  —  perhaps  he  had  it 
also  in  his  turn  at  times  toward  some  phases  of 
her  womanhood. 

The  moment  for  which  she  had  hoped  and 
striven  had  actually  come  like  a  stroke  of 
lightning  from  heaven,  but  she  could  no  more 
take  advantage  of  that  moment  now  than  she 
could  have  raised  herself  through  the  ceiling 
—  it  was  an  effort  out  of  nature.  She  tem- 
porized instead  with  angry  weakness. 

"Why  should  you  throw  all  the  responsibility 


Thursday 

on  me?  You  know  perfectly  well  yourself 
what  you  ought  to  do." 

"All  right  then,  well  let  —  the  —  subject 
—  drop"  said  Mr.  Laurence. 

"And  you're  going?" 

Ill 

Those  ensuing  three  days  were  the  dreariest 
of  her  life;  not  even  when  Robert  had  the 
diphtheria  had  she  been  so  mentally  distraught. 
There  was  no  relief  for  the  sickness  of  her  soul. 
She  couldn't  forgive  Will  for  going,  and  if 
he  had  stayed  he  couldn't  have  forgiven  her. 
Anyway,  she  would  have  had  to  lose.  That 
was  what  it  was  to  be  a  woman  —  you  always, 
always  had  to  give  up!  A  man  gave  you 
what  he  wanted  you  to  have,  but  if  there  was 
something  you  wanted  and  he  didn't  under- 
stand the  need,  you  had  to  go  without.  And 
if  Will  even  now  had  only  shown  her  the  little 
loving  attentions  that  he  had  often  shown 
her  before  —  brought  her  flowers  or  sweets  — 
but  he  only  brought  home  more  fishing-tackle. 
He  wasn't  doing  anything  to  make  up  to  her 
for  this,  precisely  because  he  would  never 
realize  that  there  was  anything  to  make  up  to 
her  for.  He  was  obsessed  by  this  mania  for 
fishing!  She  could  call  it  nothing  else.  He 
was  as  amiable,  as  courteous,  as  affectionate  as 

[177] 


Refractory  Husbands 


ever,  but  as  one  listening  to  the  Higher  Call 
beyond,  and  all  aglow  with  it.  All  he  wanted 
to  do  was  to  go  fishing! 

She  waited  until  the  day  beforehand  to  make 
out  languidly  her  menu  for  the  loathed  dinner; 
her  mind's  eye  pictured  her  surrounded  by 
kind,  tiresome  Von  Rosens,  supporting  their 
astonished,  hurt  disappointment;  lamely  lying 
out  of  the  affair,  telling  them  how  much  Will 
wanted  to  stay  home  and  see  them,  but  being 
bound  by  his  word  —  etc.,  etc.  The  mere 
thought  of  that  dinner  alone  with  them  made 
her  feel  frantic.  She  morbidly  dreaded  meeting 
Mrs.  Stone  when  she  went  to  market,  to  be 
revealed  to  the  pitying  neighbourhood  afterward 
in  her  character  as  a  repudiated  wife. 

Beside  the  larger  stress  was  the  minor  one  of 
a  daily  tussle  with  her  son  about  changing 
those  brown  corduroy  knickerbockers  in  which 
he  seemed  to  want  to  live;  he  always  forgot  in 
the  morning  to  put  on  the  blue  ones  hung  over 
night  by  the  side  of  his  bed.  She  was  already, 
in  Robert,  experiencing  the  difficulty  of  mak- 
ing anything  masculine  do  what  he  didn't 
want  to  do;  Wednesday,  she  had  sent  him 
upstairs  from  the  lunch  table  to  change, 
and  then  come  back  and  show  her  he  had 
changed.  And  late  in  the  afternoon,  going 
into  his  room,  she  spied  the  discarded  garments 
on  the  closet  floor;  as  she  picked  them  up  a 

[178] ' 


Thursday 

stream  of  white  envelopes  slid  from  the  pockets 
before  her  horrified  eyes  —  wedding  invitations, 
bills,  a  letter  from  her  sister,  three  from  friends, 
four  small  invitations,  a  letter  in  a  German  hand- 
writing—  Mrs.  Laurence's  fingers  eagerly  tore 
it  open. 

It  had  been  written,  of  course,  the  very  day 
that  she  had  met  the  Von  Rosens;  they  had 
decided  to  go  home  without  coming  back  to 
New  York  at  all. 

They  were  not  coming  —  they  had  never 
been  coming!  The  whole  pulling  contention 
of  this  bitter  week  might  have  been  avoided; 
that  was  her  first  fierce  thought;  but  it  was  too 
late  to  alter  the  situation  now  —  the  moral 
aspect  remained  unchanged.  Yet  in  that  un- 
reasonable way  in  which  the  material  affects 
the  spiritual,  she  felt  a  little  more  lenient  to- 
ward her  husband  because  she  was  not  to  suffer 
this  last  unbearable  thorn-pricking,  though  it 
was  by  no  doing  of  his.  When  she  told  Will 
that  night  he  acquiesced  brightly. 

"Is  that  so?  I  never  supposed  they'd  really 
come." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  possibly  suppose 
that."  She  felt  herself  drearily  in  the  aggressive 
again,  at  once.  "  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"I'm  going  up  to  settle  things  with  Robert." 

"Will  — Will!"  her  agonized  voice  halted 
him.  "I've  been  talking  to  him.  He  didn't 

[179] 


Refractory  Husbands 


tell  me  a  lie  —  truly !  I  have  such  an  absurd 
way  of  speaking.  It  appears  that  I  always 
said:  'Did  I  get  any  letters  to-day?'  Of 
course  I  didn't  get  them.  If  I  had  asked  him, 
'  Have  you  any  letters  for  me? '  he  would  have 
handed  them  over  at  once.  It  was  a  sort  of  a 
game  with  the  child;  one  understands  so  little 
what  is  in  a  child's  mind!  I  blame  myself  for 
persisting  in  sending  him  to  the  post-office 
when  he  particularly  asked  me  not  to.  Will  I" 

"  He'll  get  your  letters  all  right  while  I'm 
gone,"  said  Mr.  Laurence  on  his  return  from  the 
upper  regions.  "The  little  rascal!  "  His  tone 
had  a  satisfied  affection  in  it.  "No;  you're  not 
to  go  up." 

His  wife  hid  her  face  in  his  shoulder;  she 
felt  that  she  desperately  needed  a  little  comfort. 
After  a  few  moments  she  murmured  in  a  voice 
which  she  tried  hard  to  steady: 

"Do  you  suppose  we  can  read  a  little  together 
this  evening  —  as  long  as  you  are  going  away 
to-morrow?" 

"Why,  I'd  Kke  to,  dear,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't 
to-night,"  said  her  husband  kindly.  "I've 
got  to  go  out  and  grub  for  worms  —  Wendell's 
coming  up  to  help  me,  and  Stone  says  he'll 
go  with  us  and  carry  the  lantern.  Worms  seem 
uncommonly  hard  to  find  out  here.  We 
never  sent  any  word  to  Higgins  to  have  some 
[180] 


Thursday 

for  us.  I'll  ask  Ellen  for  an  old  tomato  can. 
You  look  tired;  why  don't  you  go  to  bed? 
I've  got  to  get  my  things  together  afterward; 
I'll  be  puttering  around  till  all  hours." 

"Oh,  of  course  you  will!"  said  his  wife 
below  her  breath.  What  difference  did  it 
make  whether  the  Von  Rosens  came  or  not, 
except  that  she  was  free  of  that  unbearable 
sting  of  their  entertainment?  Their  not  coming 
hadn't  altered  the  larger  issue  which  they  had 
set  in  motion .  She  and  her  husband  had  nothing 
in  common  any  more,  that  was  certain.  She 
might  as  well  be  on  the  other  side  of  the  world. 
He  didn't  even  know  that  she  gave  him  short 
answers  that  fateful  Thursday  morning  at 
breakfast.  There  was  a  whole  day's  hard 
work  —  he  was  a  busy  lawyer  —  before  that 
seven-o'clock  train  at  night  with  Wynkoop; 
a  whole  day's  work  before  the  glory  of 
that  dearly  prized,  transcendent  holiday  could 
begin,  but  the  absorption  of  it  was  already  in 
his  eyes,  in  his  voice,  in  every  gesture. 

Even  as  he  kissed  her  good-bye  in  the  hall, 
his  hands  were  clapping  his  pockets  to  make 
sure  certain  treasures  were  in  them,  before 
putting  on  his  hat  and  adequately  snatching 
up  the  enormous  pack,  the  landing-net,  the 
rods,  the  camera,  and  that  iron-weighted  suit- 
case. 

Then  as  he  went  striding  down  the  walk,  with 
[181] 


Refractory  Husbands 


the  free  motion  of  one  whose  mind  and  muscles 
are  lightly  attune,  while  she  held  the  door  open 
gazing  after  him,  the  thing  happened  which  she 
was  always  wishing  might  happen  and  which 
never  did;  he  turned  and  took  a  couple  of  steps 
backward  toward  her  to  speak  to  her  again. 
He  called  out: 

"I'll  bring  you  back  all  the  trout  you  want!" 
in  the  tone  of  one  pouring  crown  jewels  at  her 
feet.  His  dear,  happy  smile  of  unquenchable 
belief  in  her  oneness  with  him  was  like  a  flashing 
accolade  that  touched  her  for  an  ennobling 
instant  as  she  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"If  you  don't,  I'll  never  forgive  you!" 
she  called  back,  with  full-toned,  glad  high- 
heartedness. 

She  couldn't  have  done  it  if  the  Von  Rosens 
had  been  coming! 

When  he  was  no  longer  in  sight  she  went 
into  the  house  again  and  sat  down  on  the 
sofa,  trembling  a  little,  with  a  vista  opening 
before  her  down  which  she  could  see  but  dimly 
as  yet. 

Perhaps  —  perhaps,  in  that  sweet  confusion 
of  thoughts  and  feelings  that  seemed  to  have 
unbidden  possession  of  her,  she  saw  herself 
still,  in  some  new  way,  the  Dispenser  of 
Delights;  perhaps  —  she  didn't  know  —  it 
mightn't  be  a  deadlock  after  all! 

[182] 


Bunny's  Bag 


Bunny's  Bag 

WAS  the  fifteenth  of  May.  The  large 
calendar  with  the  enormous  black  numbers 
that  hung  opposite  Mr.  Ridgely  Fergu- 
son's desk  announced  the  fact  persistently  when- 
ever he  raised  his  brown  nervous  eyes.  Years 
after,  when  the  fifteenth  of  May  was  mentioned, 
it  brought  back  a  vague,  haunting  sense  that 
something  of  import,  long  since  forgotten,  had 
happened  on  that  date;  as  the  grief -stricken  one 
in  Mr.  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti's  poem,  leaning 
forward  with  his  hand  on  his  knees,  looking 
vacantly  down  into  the  weeds  and  grasses, 
remembered  clearly  afterward  not  what  had 
driven  him  there,  but  only  that  "the  wood- 
spurge"  had  a  "cup  of  three.'' 

Apart  from  looking  at  the  calendar,  Mr. 
Ferguson  was  staying  home  ostensibly  to 
write  a  popular  financial  article  —  which  in- 
cidentally refused  to  write  itself  —  to  be  de- 
livered to  the  magazine  on  Monday.  It  was 
Saturday  —  a  half -holiday  by  rights  — and 
his  wife,  who  had  an  appointment  with  her 
sister  in  town  directly  after  lunch,  warmly 

[185] 


Refractory  Husbands 


deplored  the  necessity  of  leaving  the  house  when 
he  was  unaccustomedly  in  it. 

"But  you'll  have  a  better  chance  to  write 
when  I'm  out  of  the  way!"  she  proclaimed. 
"Everything  will  be  quiet  this  afternoon,  and 
you'll  have  nothing  to  disturb  you." 

He  had  acquiesced,  with  a  sneaking  feeling 
of  anticipatory  relief  in  the  possession  of  a 
perfectly  clear  field,  the  house  all  to  himself, 
with  none  to  ask  him  why  or  wherefore;  with 
no  sense  of  Bunny's  pervading  presence  — 
neither  the  sound  of  her  light  footsteps  nor  her 
voice,  as  she  went  restlessly  in  and  out  of  other 
rooms,  nor  her  head  poking  in  at  the  door 
to  see  how  far  he'd  got,  to  disturb  him  even 
momentarily,  nor  —  what  went  deeper!  —  that 
sense  of  the  critical  frame  of  her  mind  where  he 
was  concerned. 

Yet,  what  is  there  in  an  empty  house  with  all 
hindrances  to  work  removed  that  so  often 
militates  against  it?  Why  is  it  that  when  one 
stands  no  chance  of  interruption,  ideas  halt 
and  stumble  against  some  unseen  barrier?  There 
is  a  vacuum  where  before  was  fulness,  a  ghostly 
sense  of  strangeness  in  which  the  spirit  has  to 
strive  to  regain  its  natural  bearings  —  a  chill 
pressure  is  laid  upon  the  working  muscles  that 
numbs  it.  Far  off  in  the  kitchen  Ridgely  could 
hear  the  clatter  of  dishes,  or  the  dull  shaking 
down  of  the  kitchen  range  —  alien  sounds  that 

[186] 


Bunny's  Bag 


were  usually  veiled  from  his  perception.  The 
grandfather  clock  in  the  hall  ticked  loudly  as  in 
an  empty  vault;  the  strike  was  out  of  order, 
because  he  never  could  take  the  time  to  fix  it. 
He  had  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  put  down 
his  urgent  work  and  take  time  to  fix  it  now. 
He  might  even  have  insanely  done  so  if  it  hadn't 
occurred  to  him  that  he  had  forgotten  to  bring 
out  the  new  weight  for  which  Bunny  had  been 
asking  him  for  the  last  two  weeks. 

Writing  his  financial  article  seemed  on  the 
face  of  it  to  be  an  easy  task;  his  facts  were 
ready  to  hand,  cut  from  newspapers  or  noted 
down  from  other  sources.  The  Express  Com- 
panies, the  Tariff,  the  Trusts,  the  High  Cost 
of  Living,  were  all  represented  —  he  had  tabu- 
lated^ figured,  compared.  The  only  difficulty 
lay  in  the  proper  handling  of  the  subject;  it  had 
to  catch  the  popular,  un technical  reader;  it 
all  depended  on  getting  the  right  keynote. 
He  had  already  written  and  rejected  seven 
opening  paragraphs. 

A  yellow  envelope  on  the  mantelpiece  to 
one  side  of  the  black-numbered  calendar  caught 
his  roving  eye:  Nelly  had  brought  it  when  the 
postman  made  his  last  round.  He  knew  it  as 
a  bill  from  the  plumber,  which  had  no  reason 
for  being  there,  or  for  the  "  Please  Remit," 
that,  he  felt  by  instinct,  adorned  one  corner  of 
it;  he  had  had  its  double  in  his  pocket  since 

[187] 


Refractory  Husbands 


last  month,  and  had  promised  his  wife  faithfully 
to  write  out  an  immediate  check  for  it  from  the 
balance  which  she  knew  to  be  in  the  bank. 
Somehow,  when  he  got  so  far  as  putting  a  bill 
in  his  pocket  he  felt  as  if  it  were  paid.  He 
got  up  now,  took  the  duplicate,  tore  it  in  small 
pieces  with  his  long,  nervous  fingers,  and  dropped 
them  in  the  waste-basket.  There  was  no  need 
of  Bunny's  seeing  it  when  she  came  in. 

On  the  brink  of  grappling  with  the  financial 
article  his  mind  wandered  idly  picking  up 
foolish  straws,  such  as  "Seed-time  and  bill- 
time  shall  not  fail";  he  imagined  the  consterna- 
tion in  different  households  if  all  such  missives 
were  put  in  the  hand  of  a  special  messenger 
with  a  whistle,  to  be  called  the  Bill  Whistler; 
what  awful  revelations  would  be  made.  He  would 
send  the  check  for  this  bill  that  very  afternoon; 
he  only  hoped  he  wouldn't  tell  Bunny  about 
his  f orgetfulness  —  he  had  an  absurd  habit 
of  confession;  he  couldn't  help  telling  her  things 
even  when  he  had  firmly  resolved  not  to. 

He  looked  meditatively  now  at  the  faded, 
silver-framed  photograph  of  her  that  had  stood 
for  eight  years  in  the  corner  of  his  desk  —  a 
childish-faced  Bunny,  with  a  rose  in  her  hair. 
She  had  a  different  expression  now. 

"  There's  some  one  at  the  telephone  for  you, 
sir." 

Ridgely  arose  with  a  start  and  made  his  way 

[188] 


Bunny's  Bag 


to  the  landing.  It  was  his  wife's  voice  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire. 

"Ridgely,  is  that  you,  dearest?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Well,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  we  have  just 
had  the  most  delightful  invitation  for  to-night. 
Sue  and  Joe  are  to  take  us  with  them  to  dinner 
at  the  Pallisers'  —  the  Hawley  Pallisers'  —  he's 
the  artist,  you  know;  they  are  the  ones  who  have 
the  gorgeous  Italian  studio,  and  are  so  charming. 
Do  you  understand  me,  dearest?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"I  thought  if  you  could  take  the  six  o'clock 
train  —  that  ought  to  give  you  time  to  finish 
your  article  first.  Besides,  if  you  haven't 
finished  it,  you'll  need  a  rest  and  a  change  then, 
anyway.  The  Pallisers  are  going  to  Europe 
next  week,  and  we'll  never  get  such  an  invita- 
tion again.  I'm  just  crazy  about  it!  And, 
dearest  - 

"Yes,  dear." 

"I  want  you  to  bring  in  a  bag  with  my  things. 
Nelly  can  get  them  together.  You'd  better 
get  a  pencil  and  paper  and  write  them  down. 
Have  you  got  it  there?  Well,  all  right,  dearest. 
Now  listen: 

"  My  evening  gown." 

"Your  evening  gown  —  which  one?" 

"Ridgely  Ferguson,  I've  had  the  same  evening 
gown  for  two  years.  The  white  silk,  the  only 

[189] 


Refractory  Husbands 


one  I  possess.  It's  hanging  up  in  my  closet 
—  Nelly  knows.  And  my  white  silk  stockings 
and  white  slippers.  Tell  Nelly  to  clean  them 
with  gasoline  if  they  need  it,  and  put  them  in 
the  sun  so  they  won't  smell;  and  my  long  white 
gloves,  the  best  pair;  she'd  better  clean  them,  too; 
they  are  in  my  second  drawer;  or  they  may  be 
rolled  up  in  my  silver  scarf  —  I  want  that, 
too  —  in  the  blue  window-box  in  my  room. 
And  I  want  my  white  bandeau  for  my  hair; 
it  has  pink  rosebuds  on  it  —  Nelly  knows  where 
it  is.  Have  you  written  all  that  down,  dear?" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"Tell  her  to  get  the  tan-leather  suit-case 
from  the  tank  room.  Oh!  —  and  I  want  my 
little  pearl  pendant,  it's  in  the  green  case  in  my 
top  drawer  —  the  chain  is  in  the  jewel-box. 
Oh!  —  and  my  messaline  underslip.  Tell  Nelly 
not  to  forget  that  when  she  gets  the  dress. 
I  think  that's  all.  Did  I  say  the  slippers, 
dearest?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  read  the  list  over, 
dearest." 

"Yes,  dear.  White  silk  gown  in  closet. 
White  silk  stockings.  White  slippers  to  be 
cleaned.  White  gloves,  ditto.  Silver  scarf  in 
blue  window-box.  White  bandeau  with  rosebuds 
for  hair.  Pearl  pendant.  Chain.  White  mes- 
saline slip." 

[190] 


Bunny's  Bag 


"Yes,  that  sounds  all  right  —  and  oh,  dear- 
est- 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Be  sure  and  don't  forget  a  thing.  Oh,  and 
you'd  better  bring  my  tube  of  cold  cream  and  the 
little  silver  shoe-horn  on  the  dressing-table. 
Sue  never  keeps  anything  where  you  can  find  it, 
since  the  baby  came.  And  dearest  —  there's 
a  couple  of  yards  of  \yhite  baby  ribbon  in  my 
work-basket  or  somewhere,  if  Nelly  can  find 
it  —  you  won't  forget  anything  this  time,  will 
you,  dearest?" 

"No,  dear." 

"Dinner's  at  seven-thirty.  You'll  have  to 
get  dressed  yourself,  don't  forget  that.  Come 
straight  up  to  Sue's  as  quick  as  you  can  with 
my  things.  Tell  Nelly  not  to  light  the  lamps, 
and  to  turn  down  the  gas  in  the  hall.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  dear." 

Ridgely  hung  up  the  receiver  and  went  back 
to  his  room.  As  he  sat  down  to  his  work  once 
more  he  had  a  paralyzing  sensation  of  being 
physically  and  mentally  exhausted.  He  took 
up  the  pen:  his  brains  felt  as  if  they  had  been 
scattered  in  a  dozen  different  directions,  and 
could  never  come  together  again  to  a  focussing 
point. 

"Please,  sir — "  it  was  Nelly's  voice  again 
as  before.  "Some  one's  at  the  telephone  for 
you,  sir." 


Refractory  Husbands 


Ridgely  laid  down  his  pen  with  an  exclamation 
and  stepped  down  to  the  landing  once  more. 
It  was  his  wife's  voice,  as  he  knew  it  would  be. 

" Is  that  you,  dearest?7' 

"Yes,  dear." 

"I  just  want  to  say  that  I  hope  you  don't 
mind  coming  this  way.  If  it  were  any  ordi- 
nary invitation,  I  would  have  refused;  but 
one  like  this,  so  important  —  you  sounded 
some  way  as  if  —  Sue  is  paying  for  these  calls, 
dearest." 

"No,  I  don't  mind  — it's  all  right.  But 
I'll  have  to  get  back  to  work  now,  if 

"And  you  won't  forget?" 

"No.     Good-bye!" 

As  he  started  back  to  his  desk  it  suddenly 
struck  him  with  a  spasm  of  fear  that  he  almost 
had  forgotten.  Nelly  must  be  called  at  once 
and  started  on  her  quest.  She  listened,  with 
her  head  on  one  side,  as  he  read  over  the  list 
aloud  impressively;  her  running  comments 
showed  a  reassuring  intelligence  that  took  the 
whole  burden  from  him. 

"Ah,  yes,  'tis  in  her  lower  drawer.  The 
blue  window-seat  —  ah,  yes.  I'll  find  the 
gloves  whichever  place  they  are.  Ah,  yes, 
'tis  cleaned  they  have  to  be.  If  you'll  give  me 
the  paper,  sir  —  'twill  be  all  right.  I'll  have 
them  in  the  big  dress  suitcase  when  you're 
ready  for  them." 

[192] 


Bunny's  Bag 


It  was  already  three  o'clock.  The  indefinite 
spaciousness  of  the  afternoon  in  which  any  large 
work  might  be  accomplished  had  contracted 
to  a  meagre  complement  of  two  hours  and  a 
half  —  two  hours  and  a  quarter,  for  he  must 
begin  to  dress  and  shave  not  later  than  five- 
fifteen. 

He  marshalled  his  slips  and  notes  before  him 
and  strove  with  knitted  brows  to  decide  at 
just  what  point  he  should  begin.  The  first 
sentence  must  catch  the  eye  and  pique  the 
attention,  while  yet  being  the  exact  beginning 
from  which  the  sequence  would  naturally  flow. 
It  gave  an  arresting  shock  to  realize  how  nearly 
he  had  forgotten  to  speak  to  Nelly  about  Bunny's 
things!  He  might  have  exerted  himself  to 
throw  a  little  more  warmth  into  his  tone  when 
he  said  he  didn't  mind  coming  in  —  though 
it  was  taking  time  from  his  work. 

It  was  just  that  lack  of  enthusiasm  that  Bunny 
had  missed  in  his  tone  the  first  time  and  that 
she  longed  to  call  forth  in  him.  That  was  the 
trouble  —  she  weighed  every  tone,  every  gesture; 
she  was  always  missing  something  in  him  and 
showing  that  she  did. 

A  strong  smell  of  gasoline  assailed  him  — 
evidently  Nelly,  good  girl,  was  following  out 
instructions.  The  defective  clock  in  the  hall 
suddenly  struck  thirteen  —  an  unnatural  hour. 
By  looking  at  his  watch  he  found  that  thirty 

[193] 


Refractory  Husbands 


minutes  had  gone  from  his  afternoon.  He  went 
in  the  other  room  and  deliberately  laid  out  his 
togs,  even  his  necktie,  so  that  if  he  ever  got 
started  on  his  theme  he  needn't  stop  until  the 
last  possible  minute. 

He  shaved,  put  on  his  dressing-gown,  came 
back  to  his  desk;  it  was  five  minutes  of 
four.  The  sense  of  the  shortness  of  the  time 
left  seemed  to  give  a  click  to  the  close-locked 
mechanism  of  his  brain;  he  seized  the  pen 
masterfully  and  wrote  without  hesitation  his 
illuminating  opening  sentence: 

"The  late  Commodore  Vanderbilt  was  once 
heard  to  say " 

The  handling  of  the  whole  thing  suddenly 
became  plain  before  him;  the  newspaper  clip- 
pings and  financial  tables  and  jottings  fell  into 
place  like  the  blocks  from  a  magic  wand; 
his  pen  went  like  a  race-horse.  His  face  grew 
flushed  as  he  wrote  and  wrote,  faster  and  faster, 
with  higher  concentration  each  moment.  A  dark- 
ening shadow  across  his  paper  made  him  sud- 
denly look  up  at  last  and  glance  at  his  watch. 
Immersed  as  he  had  been  in  his  work,  the 
sixth  sense  of  a  commuter  as  to  trains  had  not 
left  him. 

Twenty  minutes  to  six.  He  scratched  another 
sentence,  flung  down  the  pen  impatiently  and 
dashed  for  his  clothes,  blessing  himself  for  having 
laid  them  out. 

[194] 


Bunny's  Bag 


"Nelly!  Nelly!"  he  shouted,  as  he  tugged 
on  his  waistcoat,  "is  that  bag  ready?" 

"I'm  just  after  closing  it,  sir,"  said  the  maid. 

"You're  sure  everything  is  there?" 

"Ah,  yes,  sir,  everything." 

"All  right,  give  it  to  me,  then." 

He  finished  his  hurried  toilet  subconsciously, 
his  mind  still  immersed  in  pregnant  sentences, 
caught  up  the  bag,  ran  downstairs  with  it  and 
deposited  it  by  the  front  door  while  he  put  on 
his  overcoat  and  hat,  ran  back  upstairs  swiftly 
to  get  his  commutation  and  money  —  not  very 
much  of  the  latter  —  from  the  pocket  of  his 
everyday  suit,  and  was  off  at  last. 

It  was  time.  He  swung  complacently  on  to  the 
just  departing  train  with  that  pioneering  prehen- 
sile leg-movement  which  bespeaks  long  practice. 

There  were  not  many  people  in  the  car  at 
that  time  of  day.  Ridgely  sat  abstractedly, 
gazing  straight  before  him,  with  brows  knit, 
his  lips  occasionally  moving  with  the  reflex 
action  of  the  paragraphs  pounded  out  by  his 
still-working  brain.  That  was  a  good  article, 
if  he  knew  one;  it  could  be  read  with  interest 
by  people  who  knew  nothing  technically  of  the 
subject  as  well  as  by  those  who  did.  It  was 
by  such  handling  of  facts  as  this  that  men  suited 
the  popular  taste,  and  to  suit  the  popular  taste 
meant  money  and  perhaps  fame.  He  might  come 
to  be  an  authority  on  certain  subjects. 

[195] 


Refractory  Husbands 


Ridgely  turned  suddenly  and  looked  out  of 
the  window  idly  as  the  train  made  its  only 
stop;  it  was  an  express  from  here  on.  He 
felt  his  half-arrested  attention  to  have  some 
hazy  yet  peculiar  significance  in  it  that  seemed 
striving  to  reach  his  consciousness.  Several 
people  got  on,  but  he  certainly  knew  none  of 
them  —  a  gaunt,  low-collared,  long-throated, 
gum-chewing  lad,  a  large  woman  with  a  little 
boy,  and  a  pretty  girl  with  a  bag. 

A  bag!  Ridgely  leaned  swiftly  forward  and 
groped  beside  him  in  the  place  where  the  tan- 
leather  dress-suitcase  should  have  been.  It 
was  not  there  —  it  never  had  been  there, 
he  had  left  it  inside  of  the  front  door  of  his 
own  house  when  he  had  dashed  out  of  it! 

He  sat,  still  gropingly  leaning  forward,  struck 
to  stone,  as  the  full  horror  of  his  loss  broke 
over  him. 

The  next  instant  he  had  grasped  a  time-card 
from  his  pocket  and  was  wildly  burrowing  down 
into  the  figures,  trying  to  extract  a  return  train 
at  the  moment  of  his  arrival  in  the  big  station, 
and  another  with  which  it  might  connect  at  home 
in  time  to  get  the  bag  after  all. 

As  he  knew  before  he  looked,  the  outgoing 
train  left  five  minutes  before  his  rolled  in, 
and  the  next  would  make  eight-ten  the  earliest 
hour  at  which  he  could  catch  one  back  to  town. 
It  was  as  impossible  now  to  get  the  bag  to  Bunny 


Bunny's  Bag 


in  time  for  that  dinner  as  to  bring  to  life  a  man 
he  might  have  murdered;  there  was  an  appalling, 
sheer  finality  about  the  frustrative  quality  of 
such  a  grotesquely  small  amount  of  time  and 
space  —  so  few  miles  to  go,  so  few  minutes 
lacking  for  accomplishment,  and  the  bag  utterly 
beyond  reach. 

It  was  the  worst  thing,  short  of  death  or 
disgrace,  that  could  have  happened;  one  thought 
stared  him  in  the  face:  What  would  Bunny 
look  like  when  she  saw  that  he  hadn't  brought  the 
bag? 

The  thought  was  such  a  baleful  one  that  he 
leaned  back  with  his  eyes  closed,  to  see  it  more 
clearly  with  his  inner  mind.  If  he  could  have 
had  a  moment's  hope  that  even  after  the  first 
shock  she  might  condone  his  oversight!  But 
there  could  be  no  such  prospect.  There  had 
been  times  —  times,  as  he  allowed,  much  too 
many!  —  when  he  had  too  delusively  enter- 
tained such  a  hope.  Bunny  never  condoned 
anything  he  did;  her  clear  sight  of  the  reasons 
for  any  remissness  on  his  part,  and  her  irritated 
impatience  at  his  omissions,  grew  with  their 
recurrence. 

He  had  no  excuse  to  offer  for  having  forgotten 
the  bag,  whose  safe  transmission  meant  so  much 
to  her,  beyond  the  usual  one  of  having  been 
thinking  of  something  else. 

"Oh,  you  are  always  thinking  of  something 

[197] 


Refractory  Husbands 


else,"  she  would  reply  in  that  tone  that  he  knew 
so  well.  "I  cannot  understand  how  you " 

That  was  the  way  it  always  began.  She 
would  flare  out,  control  herself  with  an  effort, 
listen  to  his  halting  excuses,  bitterly  smiling, 
drive  home  a  truth  or  two  stingingly,  thresh  the 
whole  matter  out  —  heavens,  at  what  length!  — 
and  finally,  as  one  beaten  to  cover  by  circum- 
stances too  much  for  her,  come  to  him,  the 
angry,  helpless  tears  still  in  her  eyes,  to  be  con- 
soled by  his  caresses  as  the  only  thing  left  for 
her. 

He  knew,  with  a  twinge,  what  this  going  to 
the  Pallisers'  meant  to  Bunny.  She  was  always 
deeply  susceptible  to  the  joy  of  the  Surprise. 
This  stepping  unexpectedly  out  of  the  rut  of 
daily  life  into  another  world,  virtually,  at  the 
Pallisers'  Italian  studio,  would  have  given  her 

the  keenest  pleasure.     Well !     This  time 

she  couldn't  have  the  pleasure,  that  was  all 
there  was  to  it!  And  he  had  to  meet  her  and 
tell  her  so;  there  was  no  help  for  that. 

It  wasn't  only  his  larger  faults  that  she 
minded,  faults  for  which,  when  you  came  down 
to  it,  she  had  some  reason  to  hold  him  to  ac- 
count. He  had  been  conscious  for  this  last  year, 
especially,  that  her  critical  faculty  where  he  was 
concerned  had  taken  more  and  more  possession 
of  her.  She  was  a  woman  who  tried  to  live 
up  to  her  own  generous  standard;  she  exacted 


Bunny's  Bag 


much  from  herself  in  the  household,  his  home 
was  well  kept,  his  comfort  considered  and 
planned  for  unvaryingly. 

But  she  noticed  everything  he  did;  if  he  pulled 
down  a  window-shade,  she  rose  the  moment  after 
and  pulled  it  a  fraction  higher  or  lower;  if  he 
laid  a  book  inconsequently  on  the  table,  she 
immediately  took  it  up  and  put  it  in  the  right 
place;  if  he  poured  a  glass  of  water  for  himself, 
she  instantly  wiped  up  the  few  drops  that 
he  had  spilled  on  the  table.  His  necktie  was  never 
the  right  one  to  wear  with  that  suit,  and  the 
suit  itself  the  one  that  should  have  been  sent 
to  be  pressed. 

He  either  shut  the  door  so  hard  that  it  made 
her  jump  or  he  didn't  shut  it  at  all.  He  forgot 
continually  when  he  should  have  remembered, 
and  remembered  when  he  should  have  known 
that  the  conditions  were  changed.  Bunny  was 
not  ill-tempered  in  this  attitude  of  hers;  she 
might  even  laugh  as  she  chided,  though  with  an 
inner  note  of  earnestness  that  took  all  mirth 
out  of  the  laughter  —  but  his  most  trivial  action 
was  subjected  to  an  adverse  scrutiny  that  saw 
the  flaw  before  it  saw  anything  else  —  or  saw 
nothing  else. 

Love  cannot  live  in  the  chill  atmosphere  of 
continual  criticism.  Where  the  atmosphere  is 
primarily  of  love,  warm-enfolding,  all-encourag- 
ing love,  criticism  may  take  its  rightful,  helpful 

[199] 


Refractory  Husbands 


place  among  a  hundred  other  forces,  but  it  is 
a  blighting,  killing  thing  where  it  has  the  main 
prominence. 

Ridgely  had  what  he  felt  sometimes  to  be  a 
foolish,  boyish  habit  of  confessing  small  mis- 
deeds to  his  wife  when  she  needn't  have  known 
them  otherwise:  when  he  forgot  to  post 
her  letters,  or  made  a  mistake  in  an  order  to  be 
delivered,  or  got  something  wrong  that  for  a 
wonder  she  had  taken  for  granted  he  had  got 
right.  He  would  resolve  on  the  way  home  not 
to  tell  Bunny  a  word  about  it  this  time;  yet 
after  all  he  would  find  himself  owning  up  lightly 
in  a  moment  of  weakness,  and  getting  the  storm 
over  with  at  once;  it  seemed  somehow  petty,  and 
not  worthy  of  him,  to  keep  such  things  from  his 
wife  even  though  he  pandered  to  her  critical 
spirit  in  so  doing. 

But  perhaps  the  real  reason  lay  back  of  this; 
perhaps  the  real  reason  —  so  dimly  felt  as  to  be 
unacknowledged  —  lay  in  the  fact  that  if  he 
recognized  the  necessity  of  silence  toward  her  it 
would  also  be  a  recognition  of  that  quality  in  her 
which  he  was  growing  to  dislike;  to  dislike  a 
quality  in  a  person  means  usually,  after  a  while, 
to  dislike  the  person. 

A  sensation  of  intense  bitterness  surged  sud- 
denly over  Ridgely,  an  overpowering  revolt 
at  the  conditions  of  his  life.  Women  take 
tally  of  their  feelings  continually,  changing  the 
[200] 


Bunny's  Bag 


grades  and  colouring  in  the  handling.  It  is 
well  that  so  many  of  the  reluctant  perceptions 
of  the  normal  man,  unwarped  by  vice  or  genius, 
are  unacknowledged  to  himself;  for  once  to 
acknowledge  a  condition  or  a  feeling  makes  it 
instantly  concrete. 

As  Ridgely  sat  leaning  forward,  his  head  in 
his  hands,  his  eyes  gleaming  with  an  exhausting 
flame,  a  long  procession  of  days  stretched  out 
before  him  in  which,  instead  of  the  warming 
and  steady  glow  of  the  hearthfire,  he  should 
have  the  crackling  of  thorns;  instead  of  bread, 
a  stone.  Heaven  knew,  he  worked  hard  enough 
for  Bunny  to  get  her  what  she  wanted! 

There  was  this  valise  business.  He  had  known 
all  the  time  that  he  should  never  have  been 
asked  to  stop  his  work  and  bring  it  in.  He 
tried  to  keep  a  hold  on  himself  through  the 
intense  passion  that  seemed  about  to  rise  and 
wreck  him.  He  was  sorry  that  she  should  be 
disappointed;  of  course  he  realized  that  this 
chance  to  visit  the  Pallisers  was  an  unusual 
one  that  probably  wouldn't  occur  again;  they 
were  unusual  people  much  sought  after. 

Yes  —  but  suppose  Bunny  was  disappointed, 
what  did  it  all  amount  to  anyway  that  such 
monstrous  prominence  should  be  given  it  as 
he  foresaw  would  be  the  case?  Her  face,  when 
her  eyes  first  fell  on  him  without  that  bag, 
showed  itself  inexorably  before  him.  He  felt 

[201] 


Refractory  Husbands 


in  advance  the  impatient,  dumb  writhings  of 
spirit  to  which  that  exhausting  disappointment, 
with  all  its  raking  up  of  past  misdeeds,  would 
condemn  him  until  he  was  finally  and  tearfully 
forgiven,  when  he  no  longer  cared  whether  he 
were  forgiven  or  not,  except  that  the  air  would 
fortunately  be  breathable  once  more. 

This,  then,  was  what  his  married  life  had 
come  to  be:  a  shift,  an  evasion,  an  eternal 
struggle  to  keep  up  with  trivial  demands  that 
meant  nothing,  that  never  should  have  been 
made!  The  daily  irritation,  the  continued 
picking  at  him,  the  continued  lack  of  sympathy, 
why  should  he  put  up  with  them  longer? 

An  utterly  wild  and  insane  idea  took  momen- 
tary possession  of  him.  Suppose  he  cut  the  scene 
with  Bunny  altogether;  suppose  he  stepped  out 
of  this  train  into  one  that  would  carry  him  far, 
far  out  West?  Yellowstone  Park  spread  out 
before  him,  all  crimson  and  purple  rocks  and 
golden-hazed  mountains. 

Suppose  he  took  another  train  and  stepped 
into  a  new  life  where  a  man  could  be  a  man, 
where  there  were  big  things  instead  of  these 
little  ones  that  made  this  slowly  tightening, 
fettering  web  about  his  feet?  He  had  always 
loved  travel;  in  his  boyhood  he  had  imagined 
himself  going  through  many  lands.  He  mechan- 
ically thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket;  the  action 
brought  him  back  sanely  to  reality.  Besides 
[  202  ] 


Bunny's  Bag 


his  commutation  ticket,  he  had  but  a  dollar 
and  fifty  cents.  What  had  come  over  him, 
anyway? 

He  rose,  as  he  saw  others  doing;  the  train  was 
nearing-  the  terminus.  There  was  still  that 
tube  journey  for  him  afterward !  He  remembered 
suddenly,  as  if  it  were  in  the  trembling  film 
of  a  moving-picture,  an  intoxicated  man  sitting 
with  a  friend  on  the  opposite  side  of  a  midnight 
trolley  once  in  the  past;  the  friend  was  loudly 
proffering  encouragement  as  to  the  fitness  of 
the  tipsy  one's  condition,  in  view  of  his  home- 
coming. The  latter,  while  confidently  agreeing, 
stopped  every  few  minutes  to  lament  fearfully: 
"Yes,  but  what'll  my  wife  say  when  she  sees 
me?" 

The  gray  stone  of  the  platform,  the  darkened 
lines  of  cars  on  the  tracks,  the  high  iron  railing 
separating  them  from  the  gray  stone  space 
outside  the  waiting-rooms  with  their  swinging 
doors,  the  broad  flight  of  gray  stone  steps  leading 
upward  at  the  side,  showed  desolately  through 
the  electric  lights  as  the  small  straggling  pro- 
cession emerged  from  the  train  —  passengers 
belonging  to  no  regular  hour  of  travel  and  with 
no  cheerful  suggestion  of  the  business  world 
about  them. 

Hunched  ahead  of  Ridgely  in  the  dreary 
emptiness  of  the  station  were  two  smaller, 
slouch-hatted  men  carrying  bundles.  A  short, 
[203  ] 


Refractory  Husbands 


shawled,  pyramidal  Italian  woman  followed 
with  several  children.  He  hurried  past  them 
straggling  and  went  down  the  steps  to  the 
tunnel  automatically,  a  desultory  figure  going 
his  way  as  in  a  dream.  He  was  steeped  in  a 
monstrous  moodiness  in  which  this  sickening, 
chafing  episode  seemed  as  if  it  would  never 
come  to  an  end  and  be  over  instead  of  always 
in  prospect. 

He  sat  down  in  the  tunnel  car  with  a  lurch 
and  something  hit  lightly  against  his  hand;  as 
he  looked  down  he  saw  that  a  tiny  locket  which 
he  wore  on  his  watch  had  come  open.  Within 
was  the  tiniest  curl,  the  faintest  flaxen  wisp, 
cut  from  the  head  of  the  baby  boy  whose  brief 
little  life  had  ended  seven  years  before. 

Something  blurred  Ridgely's  vision.  With  a 
mighty  rush  came  a  torrent  of  tenderness  for 
Bunny  —  his  Bunny  —  little  bride,  little  wife, 
little  mother.  Ah,  little  mother!  Could  he 
ever  forget  her  face  when  the  baby  first  lay  in 
her  arms  after  that  terrible  fight  for  life  —  could 
he  ever  forget  her  face  when  the  boy  went  from 
them,  lying  in  his  arms  at  the  very  last,  so  little 
and  so  unspeakably  dear?  The  greatness  of 
that  bond  of  joy  and  grief  —  oh,  what,  what 
could  ever  lessen  it?  How  infinitely  small 
seemed  these  selfishnesses  and  meannesses  of 
hers  —  yes,  and  his!  when  one  so  much  as 
touched  the  healing  garment  of  Love.  Poor 
[204] 


Bunny's  Bag 


little  Bunny,  whoever  else  meted  out  stern  jus- 
tice to  her,  not  he  —  never  he! 

He  sat  up  straight  now,  still  looking  pierc- 
ingly ahead  of  him  athwart  the  white-enamelled 
posts  of  the  car  into  the  rock-bound  darkness 
outside.  There  was  a  new  sadness  in  his  eyes, 
a  firmer  compression  of  his  lips. 

That  rush  of  love  and  pity  still  held  its  place, 
but  he  knew  also  inexorably  that  it  would  fade, 
as  before;  no  such  moment  of  sentiment  could 
keep  its  living  force  in  the  demands  of  the  present. 
One  couldn't  live  only  on  the  love  of  the  past 
with  a  living,  changing  person;  one  drew  one's 
breath  every  morning  anew  to  the  day  and  the 
love  and  the  problems  of  it.  He  ought  to 
try  to  help  Bunny  of  course;  he  ought  to  try  to 
remember  what  she  missed.  As  for  what  he 
missed  —  why,  he  could  be  strong  enough  to 
stand  it. 

The  car  came  to  a  stop,  and  he  rose  with  a  sigh. 

"  Yes,  but  what1  II  my  wife  say  when  she  sees  me?  " 

There  was  still  the  trolley  ride  to  Sue's 
apartment  before  this  interminable  intermezzo 
came  to  an  end. 

But  after  he  had  reached  the  top  of  the  long 
steps  that  lead  up  from  the  tube  he  saw  in 
astonishment  a  little  figure  in  a  blue  suit  and  a 
blue  velvet  hat  with  rosebuds  on  it,  just  beyond 
the  barrier  of  the  ticket-takers  —  no  other  than 
Bunny  herself! 

[205] 


Refractory  Husbands 


He  braced  himself  for  the  fearful  moment  when 
her  gaze  would  take  in  the  damning  fact  that 
the  precious  bag  was  not  with  him  —  yes,  she 
saw!  but  with  no  change  of  expression  unless 
it  were  to  one  of  relief. 

"Oh,  I'm  so,  so  glad  you  got  my  last  tele- 
phone/' she  said  excitedly,  as  she  put  out  her 
hand  to  press  his  arm  when  he  came  near  her, 
with  that  slight  alteration  of  colour  that  always 
showed  in  her  face  when  she  met  her  husband 
suddenly.  She  went  on  talking  swiftly: 

"I  was  so  afraid  there  might  be  some  mistake! 
Nelly  said  she  knew  you  must  only  have  stepped 
out  for  a  minute,  for  the  bag  was  still  by  the 
hall  door  while  she  was  talking.  It  was  awfully 
sweet  of  you  to  come  in  this  way.  I  wasn't 
sure  you  would  care  to.  Nelly  gave  you  the 
message  correctly,  I  suppose.  The  baby  had 
just  broken  out  with  the  measles,  and  of  course 
Sue  and  Joe  couldn't  go  to  the  Pallisers'  —  that 
threw  us  out  completely,  and  I  was  so  disap- 
pointed, when  I  had  been  expecting  such  a  good 
time!  That  was  why  I  asked  you  to  come  in 
anyway  and  we'd  have  a  little  dinner  together 
somewhere  —  they're  so  upset  at  Sue's,  and  we 
had  only  chops  and  string  beans  at  home  any- 
way! As  I  telephoned,  if  you  hadn't  got  here 
by  seven  o'clock,  I  should  have  taken  the  next 
train  home.  But  it  was  awfully  nice  of  you  to 
come!* 

[206] 


Bunny's  Bag 


"  I  have  only  a  dollar  and  fifty  cents  with  me/' 
said  Ridgely  warningly. 

"Oh,  I  have  a  five-dollar  bill.  I  wouldn't 
have  suggested  the  dinner  if  I  hadn't  had  the 
money.  I  know  you  too  well  for  that!  You 

never "  she  stopped  short  with  an  odd  effort, 

as  if  in  some  way  recalling  herself  from  a  for- 
bidden path.  Her  eyes  searched  his  face. 

"Do  you  know,  you  looked  so  strange  as 
you  came  toward  me  —  I  noticed  it  the  first 
moment  I  caught  sight  of  you  —  as  if  you  had 
been  terribly  ill,"  her  voice  shook  for  an  instant, 
"and  gone  to  heaven!  I  know  you  work  too 
hard!  It  gave  me  the  most  awful  shock,  until 
I  saw  that  your  necktie  was  crooked  —  oh, 
don't  laugh  at  me!  —  and  that  your  shoes 
aeeded  a  shine." 

"You  deserve  to  be  laughed  at,"  said  Ridgely. 
"I  never  felt  better  in  my  life.  I'm  going  to 
wear  my  necktie  crooked  after  this,  and  go 
without  shines  entirely,  if  I  feel  like  it  — 
you  hear?" 

His  tone  had  a  fascinating,  careless,  masculine 
peremptoriness  as  her  eyes  helplessly  adored 
him,  for  the  moment  giving  all,  asking  nothing; 
she  had  all  the  charm  of  the  little  Bunny  he  had 
married. 

"Come  on,  Bun,  don't  let's  stand  here 
spooning;  let's  go  and  get  something  to  eat." 

As  usual,  when  one  had  braced  one's  self  for 

[207] 


Refractory  Husbands 


a  mighty  effort,  the  sands  of  occasion  had 
shifted  into  a  new  shape  that  made  the  effort 
unnecessary.  In  the  utterly  unexpected  bub- 
bling joyousness  of  this  reprieve,  in  which  his 
spirits  rose  like  a  cork,  Ridgely  yet  felt  him- 
self in  danger  of  yielding  to  a  grandly  careless, 
overpowering  impulse  to  confession  that  might 
spoil  everything  now. 

If  he  could  only  keep  from  telling  Bunny  that 
he  had  forgotten  that  bag! 


[208] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


The  Blossoming  Rod 

.  LANGSHAW  had  vaguely  felt  un- 
usual preparations  for  a  Christmas 
gift  to  him  this  year;  he  was  always 
being  asked  for  "change"  to  pay  the  children 
for  services  rendered. 

It  might  have  seemed  a  pity  that  calculation 
as  to  dollars  and  cents  entered  so  much  into 
the  Christmas  festivities  of  the  family,  if  it 
were  not  that  it  entered  so  largely  into  the 
scheme  of  living  that  it  was  naturally  inter- 
woven with  every  dearest  hope  and  fancy; 
the  overcoming  of  its  limitations  gave  a  zest 
to  life.  Langshaw  himself,  stopping  now,  as 
was  his  daily  habit,  to  look  at  the  display  made 
by  the  sporting-goods  shop  on  his  way  home 
the  Friday  afternoon  before  Christmas  Monday, 
wondered,  as  his  hand  touched  the  ten-dollar 
bill  in  his  pocket  —  a  debt  unexpectedly  paid 
him  that  day  —  if  the  time  had  actually  arrived 
at  last  when  he  might  become  the  possessor 
of  the  trout-rod  that  stood  in  the  corner  of  the 
window;  reduced,  as  the  ticket  proclaimed,  from 
fifteen  dollars  to  ten. 

[211] 


Refractory  Husbands 


The  inspiration  was  the  more  welcome  because 
the  moment  before  his  mind  had  been  idly  yet 
disquietingly  filled  with  the  shortcomings  of 
George,  his  eldest  child  and  only  son,  aged  ten, 
who  didn't  seem  to  show  that  sense  of  respon- 
sibility which  his  position  and  advanced  years 
called  for  —  even  evading  his  duties  to  his 
fond  mother  when  he  should  be  constituting 
himself  her  protector.  He  was  worried  as 
to  the  way  George  would  turn  out  when  he 
grew  up. 

This  particular  trout-rod,  however,  had  an 
attraction  for  Langshaw  of  long  standing.  He 
had  examined  it  carefully  more  than  once  when 
in  the  shop  with  his  neighbour,  Wickersham; 
it  wasn't  a  fifty-dollar  rod,  of  course,  but  it 
seemed  in  some  ways  as  good  as  if  it  were  — 
it  was  expensive  enough  for  him!  He  had 
spoken  of  it  once  to  his  wife,  with  a  craving  for 
her  usual  sympathy,  only  to  meet  with  a  sur- 
prise that  seemed  carelessly  disapproving. 

"  Why,  you  have  that  old  one  of  your  father's 
and  the  bass-rod  already;  I  can't  see  why  you 
should  want  another.  You  always  say  you 
can't  get  off  to  go  fishing  as  it  is." 

He  couldn't  explain  that  to  have  this  partic- 
ular split  bamboo  would  be  almost  as  good  as 
going  on  a  fishing  trip;  with  it  in  his  hand  he 
could  feel  himself  between  green  meadows,  the 
line  swirling  down  the  rushing  brook.  But 
[212] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


later  Clytie  had  gone  back  to  the  subject  with 
pondering  consideration: 

"Ten  dollars  seems  an  awful  price  for  a  rod! 
I'm  sure  I  could  buy  the  same  thing  for  much 
less  uptown;  wouldn't  you  like  me  to  see  about 
it  someday?" 

' '  Great  Scott !  Never  think  of  such  a  thing ! ' ' 
he  had  replied  in  horror.  "I  could  get  much 
cheaper  ones  myself!  If  I  ever  have  the  money 
I'll  do  the  buying  —  you  hear?  " 

—  Hello,  Langshaw!  Looking  at  that 
rod  again?  Why  don't  you  blow  yourself  to  a 
Christmas  present?  Haven't  you  got  the  nerve? ' y 

"That's  what  I  don't  know!"  called  Langshaw 
with  a  wave  of  the  hand  as  Wickersham  passed 
by.  Yet,  even  as  he  spoke  he  felt  he  did  know  — 
his  mind  was  joyously,  adventurously  made  up  to 
have  "the  nerve";  he  had  a  right,  for  once  in 
the  twelve  years  of  his  married  life,  to  buy  him- 
self a  Christmas  present  that  he  really  wanted, 
in  distinction  to  the  gift  that  family  affection 
prompted,  and  held  dear  as  such,  but  which 
had  no  relation  to  his  needs  or  desires.  Children 
and  friends  were  provided  for;  his  wife's  winter 
suit  —  a  present  by  her  transforming  imagination 
—  already  in  the  house;  the  Christmas  turkey 
for  the  janitor  of  the  children's  school  sub- 
scribed to  —  sometimes  he  had  wished  himself 
the  janitor!  and  all  the  small  demands  that 
drain  the  purse  at  the  festal  season  carefully 

[213] 


Refractory  Husbands 


counted  up  and  allowed  for.  There  was  no 
lien  on  this  unexpected  sum  just  received. 
The  reel  and  the  line,  and  the  flies  and  such, 
would  have  to  wait  until  another  time,  to  be 
sure;  but  no  one  could  realize  what  it  would  be  to 
him  to  come  home  and  find  that  blessed  rod 
there.  He  had  a  wild  impulse  to  go  in  and  buy 
it  that  moment,  but  such  haste  seemed  too 
slighting  to  the  dignity  of  that  occasion,  which 
should  allow  the  sweets  of  anticipation  - 
though  no  one  knew  better  than  he  the  danger 
of  delay  where  money  was  concerned :  it  melted 
like  snow  in  the  pocket.  Extra  funds  always 
seemed  to  bring  an  extra  demand. 

The  last  time  there  was  ten  dollars  to  spare 
there  had  been  a  letter  from  Langshaw's  mother, 
saying  that  his  sister  Ella,  whose  husband  was 
unfortunately  out  of  a  position,  had  developed 
flat-foot;  and  a  pair  of  suitable  shoes,  costing 
nine-fifty,  had  been  prescribed  by  the  physician. 
Was  it  possible  for  her  dear  boy  to  send  the 
money?  Ella  was  so  depressed. 

The  ten  dollars  had,  of  course,  gone  to  Ella. 
Both  Langshaw  and  his  wife  had  an  unsym- 
pathetic feeling  that  if  they  developed  flat-foot 
now  they  would  have  to  go  without  appropriate 
shoes. 

"You  look  quite  gay!"  said  his  wife  as  she 
greeted  him  on  his  return,  her  pretty  oval  face, 
with  its  large  dark  eyes  and  dark  curly  locks, 

[214] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


held  up  to  be  kissed.  "Has  anything  nice 
happened?" 

"You  look  gay  too!"  he  evaded  laughingly, 
as  his  arms  lingered  round  her.  Clytie  was 
always  a  satisfactory  person  for  a  wife.  '  *  What's 
this  pink  stuff  on  your  hair  —  popcorn?  " 

"Oh,  goodness!  Baby  has  been  so  bad,  she 
has  been  throwing  it  round  everywhere,"  she 
answered,  running  ahead  of  him  upstairs  to  a 
room  that  presented  a  scene  of  brilliant  disorder. 

On  the  bed  was  a  large  box  of  tinselled  Christ- 
mas-tree decorations  and  another  of  pink  and 
white  popcorn  —  the  flotsam  and  jctsrm  of 
which  strewed  the  counterpane  and  the  floor  to 
its  farthest  corners,  mingled  with  scraps  of 
glittering  paper,  an  acreage  of  which  surrounded 
a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  that  was 
adorned  with  mucilage  pot  and  scissors.  A 
large  feathered  hat,  a  blue  silk  dress,  and  a 
flowered  skirt  were  on  the  rug,  near  which  a 
very  plump  child  of  three,  with  straggling  yellow 
hair,  was  trying  to  get  a  piece  of  gilt  paper 
off  her  shoe.  She  looked  up  with  roguish  blue 
eyes  to  say  rapidly: 

"Fardie  doesn't  know  what  baby  goin'  a 
give  'm  for  Kissemus ! " 

"Hello!  This  looks  like  the  real  thing,"  said 
Langshaw,  stepping  over  the  debris;  "but  what 
are  all  these  clothes  on  the  floor  for?  " 

"Oh,  Mary  was  dressing  up  and  just  dropped 


Refractory  Husbands 


those  things  when  she  went  to  the  village  with 
Viney,  though  I  called  her  twice  to  come  back 
and  pick  them  up,"  said  the  mother,  sweeping 
the  garments  out  of  the  way.  "It's  so  tire- 
some of  her!  Oh,  I  know  you  stand  up  for 
everything  Mary  does,  Joe  Langshaw;  but  she 
is  the  hardest  child  to  manage !" 

Her  tone  insensibly  conveyed  a  pride  in  the 
difficulty  of  dealing  with  her  elder  daughter,  aged 
six. 

"But  did  you  ever  see  anything  like  Baby? 
She  can  keep  a  secret  as  well  as  any  one!  It 
does  look  Christmassy,  though  —  doesn't  it? 
Of  course  all  the  work  of  the  tree  at  the  mission 
comes  on  me  as  usual.  The  children,  with  the 
two  Wickersham  girls,  were  helping  me  until 
they  got  tired.  Why  don't  you  come  and  kiss 
father,  Baby?  She  is  going  to  sweep  up  the 
floor  with  her  little  broom  so  that  father  will 
give  her  five  cents." 

"I  don't  want  to  fweep  'e  floor!"  said  the 
child,  snapping  her  blue  eyes. 

"She  shall  get  her  little  broom  and  fardie  will 
help  her,"  said  Langshaw,  catching  the  child 
up  in  his  arms  and  holding  the  round  little  form 
closely  to  him  before  putting  her  down  carefully 
on  her  stubby  feet. 

Later,  when  the  game  of  clearing  up  was  over 
and  the  nickel  clutched  in  Baby's  fat  palm, 
he  turned  to  his  wife  with  a  half -frown: 

[216] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


"  Don't  you  think  you  are  making  the  children 
rather  mercenary,  Clytie?  They  seem  to  want 
to  be  paid  for  everything  they  do.  I'm  just 
about  drained  out  of  change!" 

"  Oh,  at  Christmas ! "  said  the  wife  expressively. 

"Well,  I  hope  nobody  is  going  to  spend  any 
money  on  me;  the  only  presents  I  want  are 
those  you  make  for  me/'  said  Langshaw  warn- 
ingly.  He  gave  the  same  warning  each  year, 
undeterred  by  the  nature  of  the  articles  pro- 
duced. His  last  year's  "  Christmas"  from  Clytie 
had  been  a  pair  of  diaphanous  blue  China-silk 
pajamas  that  were  abnormally  large  in  chest 
and  sleeves  —  as  for  one  of  giant  proportions  — 
and  correspondingly  contracted  in  the  legs, 
owing  to  her  cutting  out  the  tops  first  and  having 
to  get  the  other  necessary  adjuncts  out  of  the 
scant  remainder  of  the  material.  "You  hear 
me,  Clytie?" 

"Yes,  I  hear,"  returned  Clytie  in  a  bored 
tone. 

"Do  you  know :  Langshaw  hesitated, 

a  boyish  smile  overspreading  his  countenance. 
"I  was  looking  at  that  trout-rod  in  BurchelPs 
window  to-day.  I  don't  suppose  you  remember 
my  speaking  of  it,  but  I've  had  my  eye  on  it 
for  a  long  time."  He  paused,  expectant  of 
encouraging  interest. 

"Oh,  have  you,  dear?"  said  Clytie  absently. 
The  room  was  gradually,  under  her  fingers, 

[217] 


Refractory  Husbands 


resuming  its  normal  appearance.     She  turned 
suddenly  with  a  vividly  animated  expression. 

"I  must  tell  you  that  you're  going  to  get  a 
great  surprise  to-night  —  it  isn't  a  Christmas 
present,  but  it's  something  that  you'll  like  even 
better,  I  know.  It's  about  something  that 
George  has  been  doing.  You'll  never  guess  what 
it  is!" 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Langshaw  absently  in  his 
turn.  He  had  a  momentary  sense  of  being  set 
back  in  his  impulse  to  confidences  that  was  not, 
after  all,  untinged  with  pleasure.  His  delight- 
ful secret  was  still  his  own,  unmarred  by  unre- 
sponsive criticism.  "By  the  way,  Clytie,  I 
don't  like  the  way  George  has  been  behaving 
lately.  He  hasn't  shown  me  his  report  from 
school  in  months;  whenever  I  ask  him  for  it  he 
has  some  excuse.  Hello!  Is  that  little  Mary 
crying?" 

"  I  wonder  what  on  earth  has  happened  now ! " 
exclaimed  the  mother,  rushing  from  the  room  to 
return  the  next  instant,  pulling  after  her  a  red- 
cloaked  and  red-hatted  little  girl  who  sought  to 
hide  behind  her. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  she's  done?" 
Clytie's  tone  was  withering  as  she  haled  forth 
the  shrinking  culprit,  her  small  hands  over  her 
eyes.  "She  lost  her  purse  with  the  dollar  she 
had  saved  up  for  your  Christmas  present  — 
lost  the  money  for  dear  father's  present;  and 

[218] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


all  because  she  took  it  with  her  to  buy  a  five- 
cent  pencil  —  a  green  pencil  with  purple  glass 
in  the  end  of  it;  to  buy  something  for  herself 
before  Christmas !"  Clytie  paused  tragically. 
"Of  course,  if  she  hadn't  taken  her  money  out 
to  spend  it  on  herself  she  wouldn't  have  lost  it!" 

"I  don't  care!"  burst  out  the  culprit,  her  big, 
dark  eyes,  just  like  her  mother's,  flashing  from 
under  her  brown  curls,  and  her  red  lips  set 
defiantly.  "It  was  my  own  money,  anyhow,  if 
I  did  lose  it.  I  earned  it  all  myself.  It  wasn't 
yours!" 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  interposed  the  father  in 
gentle  reproof.  "Little  girls  mustn't  talk  like 
that  to  dear  mother.  Come,  get  up  here  on 
father's  knee  —  so."  He  took  off  the  red  cap, 
tucked  the  brown  curly  head  in  the  bend  of  his 
arm,  his  chin  resting  on  the  top  of  it  as  he  went 
on,  with  the  child's  small  hands  clutching  at  his. 
"Mary  must  always  do  what  mother  says;  but, 
so  far  as  this  money  is  concerned,  you  can 
make  me  something  that  I  would  like  far  better 
than  anything  you  could  buy.  Why  don't 
you  make  me  another  pincushion,  for  instance? 
The  one  you  gave  me  last  year  is  quite  worn  out." 

"A  pink  one?"  asked  Mary  faintly. 

"Yes.  What's  the  matter  now? "  The  child 
had  suddenly  wriggled  to  a  kneeling  posture  in 
his  hold  and  had  her  little  strangling  arms  round 
his  neck  in  a  tempest  of  sobs. 

[219] 


Refractory  Husbands 


"I  don't  want  to  give  you  a  pi-ink  pincushion 
—  I  don't  want  to!  I  want  my  dollar !  I  want 
my  dollar  —  to  spend !  I  want  -  Father, 

I  want  my  dollar  —  my  do-o-ol-lar!  I  want 
my " 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Mary  Langshaw?" 
cried  Clytie.  She  appealed  to  her  husband. 
"It's  just  the  way  I  knew  she'd  act.  Now  I 
suppose  you'll  have  to  give  it  to  her.  Mary, 
be  still  a  moment  —  her  head  is  so  hot!" 

"There,  there!"  said  Langshaw  soothingly. 
"She  shall  have  her  money  this  minute." 

"Of  course  she  doesn't  deserve  it,"  said  Clytie, 
but  with  a  tone  of  relief  in  her  voice  that  seemed 
oddly  greater  than  the  occasion  warranted. 
Mary  had  wound  herself  round  him  passionately; 
her  sobs  were  dying  away  happily  in  long,  deep 
breaths  at  intervals.  Baby,  being  undressed  on 
her  mother's  lap,  was  laughing  over  some  pieces 
of  gilt  paper.  In  the  heart  of  this  domesticity 
it  was  as  if  the  father  and  mother  were  embarked 
with  this  little  company  on  a  full  and  swelling 
river  of  love,  of  which  they  felt  the  exquisite 
soothing  ripples. 

Langshaw  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket. 

"No,  I  can't  give  you  the  dollar  this  minute, 
little  girl;  father  has  only  a  ten-dollar  bill. 
I'll  get  it  changed  right  after  dinner.  Isn't 
dinner  'most  ready,  Clytie?" 

"We'll  go  down  just  as  soon  as  I  get  Baby  in 

[  220] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


bed/'  said  the  mother  peacefully.  "I  don't 
see  why  George  isn't  here.  Goodness!  There 
he  is  now,"  she  added  as  a  tremendous  slam  of 
the  front  door  announced  the  fact.  The  next 
moment  a  small  boy,  roguishly  blue-eyed  and 
yellow-haired  like  Baby,  with  an  extremely  dirty 
face  and  a  gray  sweater  half  covered  with  mud, 
hurled  himself  into  the  room,  surreptitiously 
tickling  one  of  Baby's  bare  feet  and  pulling 
Mary's  curls  on  his  way  to  greet  his  father. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  to  get  so  dirty?" 

"Playing  cops  and  robbers,"  said  the  boy, 
serenely.  His  dimples  appeared  suddenly;  his 
eyes  lit  up.  "  Say,  mother"  -  he  turned  to  her 
irresolutely  —  "  shall  I  tell  father  now?  " 

"Not  until  after  dinner,"  returned  the  mother 
inexorably.  "  Go  and  make  yourself  clean ! " 

"  May  I  put  on  my  white  silk  tie?  "  George's 
white  tie  was  the  banner  of  festivity. 

"Yes." 

"You  rouse  my  curiosity.  This  seems  to  be  a 
great  occasion,"  said  Langshaw. 

"Oh,  it  is!"  agreed  the  mother  happily. 
She  murmured  in  his  ear  as  they  went  down- 
stairs: "I  hope  you'll  show  that  you're  pleased, 
dear.  You  know  sometimes  when  you  really 
are  pleased  you  don't  show  it  at  once  —  and 
George  has  been  trying  so  hard.  If  you'll 
only  show  that  you're  pleased ' 

"Yes  — all  right!"  returned  the  husband  a 

[221] 


Refractory  Husbands 


little  impatiently.  Clytie  had  a  sensitive  con- 
sideration for  her  son's  feelings  which  struck 
him  at  times  as  exaggerated.  He  thought  of 
the  delightful  secret  back  in  his  own  mind; 
there  was  no  reason  for  talking  any  more  about 
the  rod  until  he  brought  it;  he  would  manage 
to  replace  the  dollar  abstracted  from  the  reserve 
fund. 

If  he  gave  absent  answers  during  the  meal 
Clytie  seemed  to  be  preoccupied  also.  Little 
Mary,  who  sat  by  him,  tucked  her  hand  into 
his  as  she  prattled. 

"Now,  George !"  said  his  mother  at  last 
suddenly  when  the  rice  pudding  had  been 
finished.  George  rose,  clean  and  red-cheeked, 
looking  more  than  ever  like  a  large  edition  of 
Baby,  in  spite  of  his  jacket  and  knickerbockers, 
as  he  stepped  over  to  his  father  with  a  new 
dignity  and  handed  him  a  folded  sheet  of  paper. 

"What's  this?"  asked  Langshaw  genially 
opening  it.  He  read  aloud  the  words  within, 
written  laboriously  in  a  round,  boyish  hand: 

To  George  Brander  Langshaw,  from  father. 
You  Oh  me  five  dolers. 

Reseived  paiment. 

"Hello!  Hello!  What  does  this  mean?" 
asked  Langshaw  slowly  with  an  unpleasant 
startled  sensation  that  any  such  sum  in  con- 
nection with  George  was  out  of  all  reason. 

[  222  ] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


"It  means  a  bill  for  you  from  me ! "  announced 
George.  His  cheeks  grew  redder,  his  blue 
eyes  looked  squarely  at  his  father.  "It's  for 
this!"  He  pulled  from  his  pocket  a  school 
report  card  divided  into  tiny  ruled  squares, 
filled  with  figures  for  half  its  length,  and  flung 
it  down  proudly  on  the  table  before  his  parent. 

"  It's  the  Deportment  —  since  September. 
You  said  when  Miss  Skinner  sent  that  last  note 
home  about  me  that  if  I  could  get  a  hundred  in 
Deportment  for  every  month  up  to  Christmas 
you'd  be  willing  to  pay  me  five  dollars.  You 
can  see  there  for  yourself,  father,  the  three  one 
hundreds  —  no,  not  that  line  —  that's  only 
fifty-five  for  spelling;  nobody  ever  knows  their 
spelling!  Here  is  the  place  to  look  —  in  the 
Deportment  column.  I've  tried  awful  hard  to 
be  good,  father,  to  surprise  you." 

"The  way  that  child  has  tried!"  burst  forth 
Clytie,  her  dark  eyes  drowned  in  sparkles. 
"And  they're  so  unfair  at  school  —  giving  you  a 
mark  if  you  squeak  your  chair,  or  speak,  or  look 
at  anybody;  as  if  any  child  could  be  expected  to 
sit  like  a  stone  all  the  time!  I'm  sure  I  love  to 
hear  children  laughing  —  and  you  know  yourself 
how  hard  it  is  for  George  to  be  quiet!  We 
had  a  little  talk  about  it  together,  he  and  I; 
and  now  you  see!  It's  been  such  work  keeping 
his  card  from  you  each  month  when  you  asked 
for  it.  One  day  he  thought  he  had  a  bad  mark 
[223] 


Refractory  Husbands 


and  he  couldn't  eat  any  dinner  —  you  thought 
he  was  ill;  but  he  went  to  Miss  Skinner  the 
next  day  and  she  took  it  off  because  he  had 
been  trying  so  hard  to  be  good.  Joe,  why 
don't  you  speak?  " 

" George,  I'm  proud  of  you!"  said  Langshaw 
simply.  There  was  a  slight  huskiness  in  his 
voice;  the  round  face  and  guileless  blue  eyes 
of  his  little  boy,  who  had  tried  "awful  hard  to 
be  good,"  seemed  to  have  acquired  a  new  dignity. 
The  father  saw  in  him  the  grown-up  son  who 
could  be  depended  upon  to  look  after  his  mother 
if  need  were.  Langshaw  held  out  his  hand  as 
man  to  man;  the  two  pairs  of  eyes  met  squarely. 
"  No  thing  you  could  have  done  would  have 
pleased  me  more  than  this,  George.  I  value  it 
more  than  any  Christmas  present  I  could  have." 

"  Mother  said  you'd  like  it,"  said  the  beaming 
George,  ducking  his  head  suddenly  and  kicking 
out  his  legs  from  behind. 

"And  you'll  pay  the  five  dollars?"  supple- 
mented Clytie  anxiously. 

"Surely!"  said  Langshaw.  The  glances  of 
the  parents  met  in  one  of  the  highest  pleasures 
that  life  affords:  the  approval  together  of  the 
good  action  of  their  dear  child.  "George  can 
go  out  and  get  this  ten-dollar  bill  changed." 

"If  you  can't  spare  it,  father  -  "  suggested 
the  boy  with  some  new  sense  of  manliness, 
hanging  back. 

[224] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


"I'm  glad  to  be  able  to  spare  it,"  said  the 
father  soberly.  "It's  a  good  deal  of  money," 
he  added.  "I  suppose,  of  course,  you'll  put 
it  in  the  bank,  George?" 

"Now  you  mustn't  ask  what  he's  going  to  do 
with  it,"  said  Clytie. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  much!"  cried  little  Mary. 

"Dear  me,  there's  the  doorbell,"  said  Clytie. 
"Who  can  it  be  at  this  hour?  Run,  George,  and 
see!" 

"It's  a  letter  for  you,  mother,"  announced 
George,  reappearing.  "There's  a  man  in  the 
hall,  waiting  for  an  answer." 

"It  looks  like  a  bill,"  said  Clytie  nervously, 
tearing  open  the  envelope;  "but  I  don't  owe 
any  bill.  Why,  it's  two  and  a  quarter,  from  the 
tailor,  for  fixing  over  my  old  suit  last  fall!  I'm 
positive  I  paid  it  weeks  ago.  There's  some 
mistake." 

"He  says  he's  been  here  three  times,  but  you 
were  out." 

"Have  you  any  money  for  it,  Clytie?"  asked 
her  husband. 

Clytie  looked  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had  struck 
her. 

"Yes,  I  have;  but  —  oh,  I  don't  want  to  take 
it  for  that!  I  need  every  penny  I've  got." 

"Well,  there's  no  need  of  feeling  so  badly 
about  it,"  said  Langshaw  resignedly. 

"Give  the  ten-dollar  bill  to  the  man,  George, 

[225] 


Refractory  Husbands 


and  see  if  he  can  change  it."  He  couldn't 
resist  a  slight  masculine  touch  of  severity  at 
her  incapacity.  "I  wish  you'd  tend  to  these 
things  at  the  time,  Clytie,  or  let  me  know  about 
them."  He  took  the  money  when  George 
returned.  "  Here's  your  dollar  now,  Mary- 
don't  lose  it  again!  —  and  your  five,  George. 
You  might  as  well  take  another  dollar  yourself, 
Clytie,  for  extras." 

He  pocketed  the  remainder  of  the  change 
carelessly.  After  his  first  pang  at  the  encroach- 
ment on  the  reserve  fund  the  rod  had  sunk  so 
far  out  of  sight  that  it  was  almost  as  if  it  had 
never  been.  He  had,  of  course,  known  all 
along  that  he  would  not  buy  it.  Even  the 
sting  of  the  " Amount  due"  quickly  evaporated. 

Little  Mary  gave  a  jump  that  bumped  her 
brown  curly  head  against  him. 

"  You  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  give  you 
for  Christmas!"  she  cried  joyously. 

II 

Langshaw  was  one  of  those  men  who  have  an 
inherited  capacity  for  enjoying  Christmas.  He 
lent  it  his  attention  with  zest,  choosing  the 
turkey  himself  with  critical  care  as  he  went 
through  the  big  market  in  town,  from  whence 
he  brought  also  wreaths  and  branches  of  holly 
that  seemed  to  have  larger  and  redder  berries 

[226] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


than  could  be  bought  in  the  village.  On  Christ- 
mas Eve  he  put  up  the  greens  that  decorated 
the  parlour  and  dining-room  —  a  ceremony  that 
required  large  preparations  with  a  step-ladder, 
a  hammer,  tacks,  and  string,  the  removal  of  his 
coat,  and  a  lighted  pipe  in  one  corner  of  his 
mouth;  and  which  proceeded  with  such  painstak- 
ing slowness  on  account  of  his  coming  down  from 
the  ladder  every  other  moment  to  view  the 
artistic  effect  of  the  arrangements,  that  it  was 
only  by  sticking  the  last  branches  up  any  old 
way  at  Clytie's  wild  appeal  that  he  ever  got  it 
finished  at  all. 

Then  he  helped  her  fill  the  stockings,  his  own 
fingers  carefully  giving  the  crowning  effect  of 
orange  and  cornucopia  in  each  one,  and  arranging 
the  large  packages  below,  after  tiptoeing  down 
the  stairs  with  them  so  as  not  to  wake  the  offici- 
ally sleeping  children,  who  were  patently  stark 
awake,  thrashing  or  coughing  in  their  little  beds. 
The  sturdy  George  had  never  been  known  to  sleep 
on  Christmas  Eve,  always  coming  down  the 
next  day  esthetically  pale  and  with  abnor- 
mally large  eyes,  to  the  feast  of  rapture. 

On  this  Saturday  —  Christmas  Eve's  eve  — 
when  Langshaw  finally  reached  home,  laden 
with  all  the  "last  things"  and  the  impossible 
packages  of  tortuous  shapes  left  by  fond  rel- 
atives at  his  office  for  the  children  —  one 
pocket  of  his  overcoat  weighted  with  the  love- 
[227] 


Refractory  Husbands 


box  of  really  good  candy  for  Clytie  —  it  was 
evident  as  soon  as  he  opened  the  hall  door  that 
something  unusual  was  going  on  upstairs. 
Wild  shrieks  of  "It's  father!  It's  father!" 
rent  the  air. 

"It's  father!" 

"  Fardie !    Fardie,  don't  come  up ! " 

"Father,  don't  come  up!" 

"Father,  it's  your  present!" 

There  was  hasty  scurrying  of  feet,  racing  to 
and  fro,  and  further  shrieks.  Langshaw  waited, 
smiling.  It  was  evidently  a  "boughten"  gift 
then;  the  last  had  been  a  water  pitcher,  much 
needed  in  the  household.  He  braced  himself 
fondly  for  immense  enthusiasm  over  this. 

An  expression  of  intense  excitement  was 
visible  on  each  face  when  finally  he  was  allowed 
to  enter  the  upper  room.  Mary  and  Baby  rushed 
at  him  to  clasp  his  leg,  while  his  wife  leaned 
over  to  kiss  him  as  he  whispered: 

"I  brought  out  a  lot  of  truck;  it's  all  in  the 
closet  in  the  hall." 

George,  standing  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
proclaimed  loudly,  with  sparkling  eyes: 

"You  nearly  saw  your  present!  It's  from 
mother  and  us.  Come  here,  Baby,  and  pull 
brother's  leg.  Say,  father,  do  you  like  cut 
glass?" 

"O-oh!"  came  in  ecstatic  chorus  from  the 
other  two,  as  at  a  delightful  joke. 
[228] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


"It's  a  secret!"  announced  Baby,  her  yellow 
hair  falling  over  one  round,  blue  eye. 

"  I  believe  it's  a  pony,"  said  the  father.  "I'm 
sure  I  heard  a  pony  up  here ! " 

Shouts  of  renewed  joy  greeted  the  jest. 

All  the  next  day,  Christmas  Eve  itself,  when- 
ever two  or  three  of  the  family  were  gathered 
together  there  were  secret  whisperings,  more 
scurryings,  and  frenzied  warnings  for  the  father 
not  to  come  into  the  room.  In  spite  of 
himself,  Langshaw  began  to  get  a  little  curious 
as  to  the  tobacco  jar  or  the  fire  shovel,  or  what- 
ever should  be  his  portion.  He  not  only  felt 
resigned  to  not  having  the  trout-rod,  but  a  sort 
of  wonder  also  rose  in  him  that  he  had  been  be- 
witched —  even  momentarily  —  into  thinking 
he  could  have  it.  What  did  it  matter  anyway? 

"It's  worth  it,  old  girl,  isn't  it?"  he  said 
cryptically  as  he  and  Clytie  met  once  un- 
expectedly in  the  hall,  and  he  put  his  arm 
round  her. 

"Yes!"  answered  his  wife,  her  dark  eyes 
lustrous.  Sometimes  she  didn't  look  much 
older  than  little  Mary.  "One  thing  though 
I  must  say:  I  do  hope,  dear,  that  —  the  children 
have  been  thinking  so  much  of  our  present  to 
you  and  saving  up  so  for  it  —  I  do  hope,  Joe, 
that  if  you  are  pleased  you'll  show  it.  So  far 
as  I'm  concerned,  it  doesn't  matter;  but  some- 
times—  when,  of  course,  I  know  how  pleased 
[229] 


Refractory  Husbands 


you  really  are  —  you  don't  show  it  at  once  to 
others.  That's  why  I  hope  you'll  show  it  to- 
morrow if  - 

"  Great  Scott!  Clytie,  let  up  on  it!  What 
do  you  want  me  to  do  —  jump  up  and  down 
and  make  a  fool  of  myself?"  asked  her  hus- 
band scornfully.  "  You  leave  me  alone ! " 

It  was  Langshaw's  firm  rule,  vainly  pro- 
tested even  by  his  wife,  that  the  household 
should  have  breakfast  on  Christmas  Day 
before  tackling  the  stockings  —  a  hurried 
mockery  of  a  meal,  to  be  sure,  yet  to  his  mas- 
culine idea  a  reenforcement  of  food  for  the 
infant  stomach  before  the  long,  hurtling  joy 
of  the  day.  The  stockings  and  the  piles  under 
them  were  taken  in  order,  according  to  age  - 
the  youngest  first  and  the  others  waiting  in 
rapt  interest  and  admiration  until  their  turn 
arrived  —  a  pretty  ceremony. 

In  the  delicious  revelry  of  Baby's  joy,  as 
her  trembling,  fat  little  fingers  pulled  forth 
dolls  and  their  like,  all  else  was  forgotten 
until  it  was  Mary's  turn,  and  then  George's 
and  then  the  mother's.  And  then,  when 
he  had  forgotten  all  about  it:  "Now  father!" 
There  was  seemingly  a  breathless  moment  while 
all  eyes  turned  to  him. 

"It's  father's  turn  now;  father's  going  to 
have  his  presents.  Father,  sit  down  here 
on  the  sofa  —  it's  your  turn  now." 

[230] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


There  were  only  a  blue  cornucopia  and  an 
orange  and  a  bottle  of  olives  in  his  stocking,  a 
Christmas  card  from  his  sister  Ella,  a  necktie 
from  grandmamma,  and  nothing,  as  his  quick 
eye  had  noted,  under  it  on  the  floor;  but  now 
George  importantly  stooped  down,  drew  a  narrow 
package  from  under  the  sofa  and  laid  it  beside 
his  father,  pulling  off  the  paper.  Inside  was  a 
slim,  longish,  gray  linen  bag.  Langshaw  studied 
it  for  a  moment  before  opening  it. 

"Well,  I'll  be  jiggered!"  he  breathed,  with  a 
strange  glance  round  at  the  waiting  group  and  an 
odd,  crooked  smile.  "I'll  be  jiggered ! " 

There  in  its  neatly  grooved  sections  lay  the 
rod,  ready  to  be  put  together  —  not  a  rod,  but, 
as  his  eye  almost  unbelievingly  reassured  him, 
the  rod  —  the  ticket  of  the  shop  adorning  it  — 
in  all  its  beauty  of  golden  shellac  and  delicate 
tip.  His  fingers  touched  the  pieces  reverently. 

"Well,  will  you  look  at  that!  How  did  you 
ever  think  of  getting  it?  " 

"How  did  I  think  of  it?  Because  you  talked 
about  it  all  the  time/'  said  his  wife  scornfully, 
with  her  arms  round  his  neck  from  behind,  while 
the  children  flung  themselves  upon  him.  "Oh, 
I  know  you  thought  you  didn't;  but  you  did 
just  the  same.  George  heard  you  too.  We  got 
Mr.  Wickersham  to  pick  it  out.  He  said  it 
was  the  one  you  wanted.  And  the  reel  —  you 
haven't  noticed  that  box  there  —  the  reel  is 


Refractory  Husbands 


the  right  kind,  he  says;  and  the  line  is  silk- 
the  best.  There's  the  book  of  flies  too  —  six. 
Baby's  crazy  over  them!  Mr.  Wickersham 
said  it  was  all  just  what  you  ought  to  have. 
We've  been  saving  up  for  the  longest  time; 
but  we  had  to  wait,  you  see,  for  George's 
deportment  before  the  things  could  be  bought. 
If  it  isn't  right  - 

"  Right?  Say,  this  is  the  finest  present 
I  ever  had!"  said  Langshaw  with  glittering 
eyes  and  that  little  crooked  smile.  "It  just 
beats  everything!" 

He  rose,  scattering  his  adoring  family,  and, 
walking  to  the  window,  threw  it  open  to  the 
frosty  December  air  and  called  across  to  a 
neighbour  standing  on  the  walk. 

"Want  to  come  over  here,  Hendon?  Got 
something  to  show  you.  Will  you  look  at  this! 
Present  from  my  wife  and  the  kids  —  been 
saving  up  for  it.  It's  a  peach,  I'll  tell  you  that! 
I'm  going  to  take  George  off  fishing  this 

spring What?     Well,   come  over  later, 

when  you've  got  time  to  take  a  good  look  at  it." 

"Do  you  like  it,  father?"  came  from  three 
different  voices  at  once. 

"Do  I  like  it?  You  can  just  bet  I  do," 
said  Langshaw  emphatically.  He  bent  and 
kissed  the  three  upturned  faces,  and  leaned 
toward  his  wife  afterward  to  press  her  sweet 
waiting  lips  with  his;  but  his  eyes,  as  if  drawn 

[232] 


The  Blossoming  Rod 


by  a  magnet,  were  only  on  the  rod  —  not  the 
mere  bundle  of  sticks  he  might  have  bought, 
but  transformed  into  one  blossoming  with  love. 

"And  do  you  know,  we  hardly  saw  a  thing 
of  him  all  day!"  Clytie  proudly  recounted 
afterward  to  her  sister.  "My  dear,  he  would 
hardly  take  time  to  eat  his  dinner  or  speak  to 
any  one;  he  was  out  in  the  back  yard  with  Henry 
Wickersham  and  Mr.  Hendon  until  dark, 
flapping  that  rod  in  circles  —  the  silliest  thing ! 
He  nearly  sent  a  hook  into  George's  eye  once. 
George  acted  as  bewitched  as  he  did.  Joe 
kept  telling  every  single  person  who  came  along 
that  it  was  'a  present  from  his  wife  and  the 
kids.'  He  certainly  showed  that  he  was  pleased." 

"It's  been  a  pretty  nice  day,  hasn't  it?" 
Langshaw  said  to  his  wife  that  Christmas  night 
when  the  children  were  at  last  in  bed.  "Best 
Christmas  I  ever  had !  To  think  of  you  and  the 
kids  doing  all  this  for  me." 

His  hand  rested  lovingly  on  the  rod,  now 
once  again  swathed  in  the  gray  linen  bag. 
He  would  have  been  the  last  to  realize  that, 
in  his  humble  way,  he  typified  a  diviner  Father- 
hood to  the  little  family  who  trusted  in  his  care 
for  them  —  for  all  things  came  of  him  and  of  his 
own  had  they  given  him. 

THE   END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


